LIBRARY 

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2.  7 


LYRA    HEROICA 


LYRA     HEROICA 

A  BOOK  OF  VERSE   FOR  BOYS 

SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED   BY 

WILLIAM   ERNEST   HENLEY 


Sound,  townd  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  I 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim 

One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1891 


COPYRIGHT,   1891,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


»**  The  selections  from  Walt  Whitman  are  published  by  permission  of 
Mr.  Whitman;  and those  from  Longfellow ,  Lowell,  Whittier,and 
Bret  Harte,  through  the  courtesy  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &* 
Co.,  the  publishers  of  their  •marks. 


TO   WALTER   BLAIKIE 

ARTIST-PRINTER 
MY    PART    IN    THIS    BOOK 

W.   E.   H. 
Edinburgh,  July  1891. 


PREFACE 

This  book  of  verse  for  boys  is,  I  believe,  the  first  of  its 
kind  in  English.  Plainly,  it  were  labour  lost  to  go  glean- 
ing where  so  many  experts  have  gone  harvesting;  and  for 
-what  is  rarest  and  best  in  English  Poetry  the  world  must 
turn,  as  heretofore,  to  the  several  '  Golden  Treasuries '  of 
Professor  Palgrave  and  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore,  and  to  the 
excellent  '  Poets'  Walk '  *of  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris.  My 
purpose  has  been  to  choose  and  sheave  a  certain  number  of 
those  achievements  in  verse  which,  as  expressing  the  simpler 
sentiments  and  the  more  elemental  emotions,  might  fitly  be 
addressed  to  such  boys — and  men,  for  that  matter — as  are 
privileged  to  use  our  noble  English  tongue. 

To  set  forth,  as  only  art  can,  the  beauty  and  the  joy  of 
living,  the  beauty  and  the  blessedness  of  death,  the  glory  of 
battle  and  adventure,  the  nobility  of  devotion — to  a  cause, 
an  ideal,  a  passion  even — the  dignity  of  resistance,  the 
sacred  quality  of  patriotism,  that  is  my  ambition  here. 
Now,  to  read  poetry  at  all  is  to  have  an  ideal  anthology  of 
one's  own,  and  in  that  possession  to  be  incapable  of  content 
with  the  anthologies  of  all  the  world  besides.  That  is,  the 
personal  equation  is  ever  to  be  reckoned  withal,  and  f  have 
had  my  preferences,  as  tJtose  that  went  before  me  had  theirs. 
I  have  omitted  much,  as  Aytoutfs  '  Lays?  whose  absence 


viii  PREFACE 

many  will  resent ;  I  have  included  much,  as  that  brilliant 
piece  of  doggerel  of  Frederick  Marryafs,  "whose  presence 
some  will  regard  with  distress.  This  without  reference  to 
enforcements  due  to  the  very  nature  of  my  work. 

I  have  adopted  the  birth-day  order :  for  that  is  the  sim- 
plest. And  I  have  begun  with — not  Chaucer,  nor  Spenser, 
nor  the  ballads,  but — Shakespeare  and  Agincourt ;  for  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  book  of  heroism  could  have  no  better 
starting-point  than  that  heroic  pair  of  names.  As  for  the 
ballads,  I  have  placed  them,  after  much  considering,  in  the 
gap  between  old  and  new,  between  classic  and  romantic,  in 
English  verse.  The  witness  of  Sidney  and  Dray  toft's  ex- 
ample notwithstanding,  it  is  not  until  1765,  when  Percy 
publishes  the  '  Reliques?  that  the  ballad  spirit  begins  to  be 
the  master  influence  that  Wordsworth  confessed  it  was  ; 
while  as  for  the  history  of  the  matter,  there  are  who  hold 
that  '•Sir  Patrick  Spens,"1  for  exarnple,  is  the  work  of  Lady 
Wardlaw,  which  to  others,  myself  among  them,  is  a  thing 
preposterous  and  distraught. 

It  remains  to  add  that,  addressing  myself  to  boys,  I  have 
not  scrupled  to  edit  my  authors  where  editing  seemed  desir- 
able, and  that  I  have  broken  up  some  of  the  longer  pieces 
for  convenience  in  reading.  Also,  the  help  I  have  received 
while  this  book  of ' Noble  Numbers'*  was  in  course  of  growth 
— help  in  the  way  of  counsel,  sitggestion,  remonstrance,  per- 
mission to  use — has  been  such  that  it  taxes  gratitude  and 
makes  complete  acknowledgment  impossible. 

W.  E.  H. 


CONTENTS 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  (1564-1616)   and 
MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1563-1631). 

I.  AGINCOURT  PAGE 

Introit i 

Interlude        ......  2 

Harjleur 3 

The  Eve 4 

The  Battle 6 

After 10 

SIR  HENRY  WOTTON  (1568-1639). 

II.  LORD  OF  HIMSELF II 

BEN  JONSON  (1574-1637). 

III.  TRUE  BALM 12 

IV.  HONOUR  IN  BUD 13 

JOHN  FLETCHER  (1576-1625). 

V.  THE  JOY  OK  BATTLE  .  .  .  .  13 

FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  (1586-1616). 

VI.   IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY      .  .  .  .  15 

ROBERT  HERRICK  (1591-1674). 

VII.  GOING  A-MAYING 15 

VIII.  TO  ANTHEA,  WHO  MAY  COMMAND  HIM  ANY- 
THING    ,  18 


x  CONTENTS 

GEORGE  HERBERT  (1593-1638).  PAGE 

IX.   MEMENTO  MORI 19 

JAMES  SHIRLEY  (1594-1666). 

X.  THE  KING  OF  KINGS  2O 

JOHN  MILTON  (1608-1674). 

XI.   LYCIDAS 21 

XII.  ARMS  AND  THE  MUSE            ....  27 

XIII.  TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL       ....  28 

XTV.  THE  LATE  MASSACRE              ....  28 

XV.   ON   HIS  BLINDNESS 29 

XVI.   EYELESS  AT  GAZA 30 

XVII.  OUT  OF  ADVERSITY 3! 

JAMES  GRAHAM,  MARQUIS  OF   MONTROSE 
(1612-1650). 

XVIII.   HEROIC  LOVE 31 

RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658). 

XIX.  GOING  TO  THE  WARS            ....          32 
XX.   FROM  PRISON 33 

ANDREW  MARVELL  (1620-1678). 

XXI.  TWO  KINGS 34 

XXII.   IN  EXILE 39 

JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631-1701). 

xxni.  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 40 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON  (1709-1784). 

XXIV.  THE  QUIET   LIFE 45 


CONTENTS  xi 
BALLADS 

XXV.  CHEVY  CHASE  PAGE 

The  Hunting 47 

The  Challenge 49 

The  Battle 51 

The  Slain 54 

The  Tidings 56 

XXVI.  SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 57 

XXVII.   BRAVE   LORD   WILLOUGHBY             .           .           .  60 

XXVIII.   HUGHIE  THE  GRAEME             ....  64 
XXIX.   KINMONT  WILUE 

The  Capture 66 

The  Keeper's  Wrath       ....  67 

The  March 69 

The  Rescue 71 

XXX.  THE  HONOUR  OF  BRISTOL  73 

XXXI.  HELEN  OF  KIRKCONNELL    ....  77 

XXXII.  THE  TWA  CORBIES 79 

THOMAS  GRAY  (1716-1771). 

XXXIII.  THE  BARD 80 

WILLIAM  COWPER  (1731-1800). 

XXXIV.  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 85 

XXXV.  BOADICEA 86 

GRAHAM  OF  GARTMORE  (1735-1797). 

XXXVI.  TO   HIS  LADY 88 

CHARLES  DIBDIN  (1745-1814). 

XXXVII.   CONSTANCY 89 

XXXVIII.  THE  PERFECT  SAILOR             ....  90 

JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN  (1750-1817). 

XXXIX.  THE  DESERTER 91 


xii  CONTENTS 

PRINCE  HOARE  (1755-1834).  PAGE 

XL.  THE  ARETHUSA 92 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  (1757-1823). 

XLI.   THE  BEAUTY   OF  TERROR     ....  94 

ROBERT  BURNS  (1759-1796). 

XLII.  DEFIANCE 95 

XLIII.  THE  GOAL  OF  LIFE 96 

XLIV.  BEFORE  PARTING 97 

XLV.  DEVOTION 98 

XLVI.  TRUE  UNTIL  DEATH 99 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  (1770-1850). 

XLVII.   VENICE IOO 

XLVIII.   DESTINY IOI 

XLIX.  THE   MOTHER  LAND IOI 

L.   IDEAL 102 

LI.  TO   DUTY IO3 

LII.  TWO  VICTORIES 105 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  (1771-1832). 

LIII.  IN  MEMORIAM 107 

LIV.   LOCHINVAR 112 

LV.    FLODDEN 

The  March 114 

The  Attack 116 

The  Last  Stand 119 

LVI.  THE  CHASE 121 

LVII.   THE  OUTLAW 126 

LVIII.   PIBROCH 129 

LIX.  THE  OMNIPOTENT          .  130 

LX.  THE   RED   HARLAW 131 

LXI.   FAREWELL 133 

LXII.   BONNY   DUNDEE 134 


CONTENTS  xiii 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  (1772-1834).  PAGE 

LXIII.  ROMANCE 136 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  (1775-1864). 

LXTV.   SACRIFICE 138 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL  (1777-1844). 

LXV.  SOLDIER  AND   SAILOR            ....  140 

LXVI.    '  YE  MARINERS  ' 143 

LXVII.  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC        ...  144 

EBENEZER  ELLIOTT  (1781-1846). 

LXVIII.  BATTLE  SONG 146 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM  (1785-1842). 

LXIX.  LOYALTY 147 

LXX.    A   SEA-SONG 148 

BRYANT  WALLER  PROCTOR  (1787-1874). 

LXXI.  A  SONG  OF  THE  SEA              ....  149 

GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  (1788-1824). 

LXXII.   SENNACHERIB 150 

LXXIII.   THE   STORMING   OF  CORINTH 

The  Signal 151 

The  Assault 153 

The  Magazine         ...  .156 

LXXIV.  ALIIAMA l6o 

LXXV.   FRIENDSHIP 164 

LXXVI.  THE   RACE  WITH    DEATH      ....  165 

LXXVII.   THE  GLORY  THAT   WAS   GREECE              .           .  167 

LXXVIII.    HAIL  AND   FAREWELL            .                       .           .  17! 

CHARLES  WOLFE  (1791-1823). 

LXXIX.  AFTER  CORUNNA 172 


xiv  CONTENTS 

FREDERICK  MARRYAT  (1792-1848).  PAGE 

LXXX.  THE  OLD  NAVY 174 

FELICIA  HEMANS  (1793-1825). 

LXXXl.  CASABIANCA 175 

LXXXII.  THE  PILGRIM   FATHERS         .  .  .  -177 

JOHN  KEATS  (1796-1821). 

LXXXIII.  TO  THE  ADVENTUROUS          .  .  .  .179 

THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD  MACAULAY 
(1800-1859). 

LXXXIV.   HORATIUS 

The  Try  sting 179 

The  Trouble  in  Rome     .        .        .        .183 
The  Keeping  oftfie  Bridge     .         .         .189 

Father  Tiber 196 

LXXXV.  THE  ARMADA 2OO 

LXXXVI.  THE  LAST  BUCCANEER        ....      205 
LXXXVII.  A  JACOBITE'S  EPITAPH        ....      206 

ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER  (1803-1875). 

LXXXVIII.   THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  MEN       .  .         207 

HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW 
(1807-1882). 

LXXXIX.    THE  BUILDING  OF  THE   SHIP 

The  Model 208 

The  Builders 210 

In  the  Ship-  Yard 214 

The  Two  Bridals 217 

XC.   THE  DISCOVERER   OF  THE  NORTH   CAPE       .  223 

XCI.  THE  CUMBERLAND 227 

XCII.   A  DUTCH  PICTURE 228 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  (b.  1807). 

XCI II.    BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 230 


CONTENTS  rv 

ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON   (b.   1809).  PAGB 

XCIV.  A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET  ....  232 

XCV.  THE   HEAVY  BRIGADE             ....  239 

SIR  FRANCIS   HASTINGS  DOYLE  (1810-1888). 

XCVI.  THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS        .           .           .  242 

XCVII.  THE   RED  THREAD   OF  HONOUR  .           .           .  244 

ROBERT  BROWNING   (1812-1890). 

XCVIII.  HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA         .          .  248 

XCIX.   HERVE  RIEL 248 

WALT  WHITMAN  (b.   1819). 

C.  THE  DYING  FIREMAN            ....  254 

CI.  A  SEA-FIGHT 255 

en.  BEAT!  BEAT!  DRUMS!        ....  257 

CHI.  TWO  VETERANS 258 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY   (1819-1875). 

CIV.   THE   PLEASANT   ISLE  OF  AVES      .           .           .  2<JO 

CV.  A  WELCOME 262 

SIR  HENRY  YULE   (1820-1889). 

CVI.  THE   BIRKENHEAD 264 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD   (1822-1888). 

CVII.  APOLLO 265 

CVIII.  THE  DEATH  OF  SOHRAB 

The  Duel 267 

Sohrab 269 

The  Recognition 272 

Ruksh  the  Horse 275 

Rustum 277 

Night 280 

CIX.   FLEE   FRO'  THE   PRESS  282 


xvi  CONTENTS 

WILLIAM  CORY  (J.    1823).  PAGE 

CX.   SCHOOL  FENCIBLES 284 

CXI.  THE  TWO  CAPTAINS 285 

GEORGE  MEREDITH    (b.   1828). 

CXII.  THE  HEAD  OF  BRAN 290 

WILLIAM  MORRIS   (b.   1834). 

CXIII.  THE  SLAYING  OF  THE  NIBLUNGS 

ffogni 293 

Gunnar          ......  297 

Gudrun 301 

The  Sons  of  Giuki          ....  304 

ALFRED  AUSTIN   (b.    1835). 

CXIV.   IS   LIFE  WORTH  LIVING?     ....         3°8 

SIR  ALFRED  LYALL   (b.   1835). 

CXV.  THEOLOGY   IN   EXTREMIS       .  .  .  311 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  (b.  1837). 

CXVI.  THE  OBLATION 31 6 

CXVII.   ENGLAND 317 

CXVIII.  THE  JACOBITE  IN   EXILE      ....         319 

BRET  HARTE   (b.    1839). 

CXIX.  THE  REVEILLE 322 

CXX.  WHAT  THE  BULLET   SANG    ....         323 

AUSTIN   DOBSON   (b.    1840). 

CXXI.   A  BALLAD  OF  THE  ARMADA         .  .  .         324 

ANDREW   LANG    (b.    1844). 

CXXII.  THE    WHITE    PACHA 325 


CONTENTS  xvii 

ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON   (b.    1850).  PAGE 

CXXI1I.   MOTHER  AND   SON 326 

HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING  (b.   1859). 

CXX1V.   PRAYERS 328 

RUDYARD   KIPLING    (b.    1865). 

CXXV.   A   BALLAD   OF   EAST  AND   WEST  .  .  .329 

CXXVI.  THE   FLAG   OF   ENGLAND       .           .                       .  335 

NOTES 341 

INDEX 359 


For  I  trust,  if  an  enemy"1  s  fleet  came  yonder  round  by 

the  hill, 
And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker 

out  of  the  foam, 
That  the  smooth-faced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  from 

his  counter  and  till, 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating 

yard-wand,  home. 

TENNYSON. 


LYRA    HEROICA 


AGINCOURT 

INTROIT 

O  FOR  a  Muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 

The  brightest  heaven  of  invention, 

A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act 

And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene! 

Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 

Assume  the  port  of  Mars;  and  at  his  heels, 

Leashed  in  like  hounds,  should  Famine,  Sword  and 

Fire 

Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles  all, 
The  flat  unraised  spirits  that  have  dared 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object.     Can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt? 
O  pardon !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest  in  little  place  a  million, 
And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt, 
On  your  imaginary  forces  work. 
Suppose  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 
Are  now  confined  two  mighty  monarchies, 


2  SHAKESPEARE 

Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts 

The  perilous  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder : 

Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts; 

Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 

And  make  imaginary  puissance; 

Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 

Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth; 

For  'tis  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our  kings, 

Carry  them  here  and  there,  jumping  o'er  times, 

Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 

Into  an  hour-glass. 


INTERLUDE 

Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire, 
And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies: 
Now  thrive  the  armourers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man : 
They  sell  the  pasture  now  to  buy  the  horse, 
Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian  kings, 
With  winged  heels,  as  English  Mercuries : 
For  now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air, 
And  hides  a  sword  from  hilts  unto  the  point 
With  crowns  imperial,  crowns  and  coronets, 
Promised  to  Harry  and  his  followers. 
The  French,  advised  by  good  intelligence 
Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation, 
Shake  in  their  fear,  and  with  pale  policy 
Seek  to  divert  the  English  purposes. 
O  England !  model  to  thy  inward  greatness, 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, 


SHAKESPEARE  3 

What  mightst  thou  do,  that  honour  would  thee  do, 

Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural! 

But  see  thy  fault:  France  hath  in  thee  found  out 

A  nest  of  hollow  bosoms,  which  he  fills 

With  treacherous  crowns;  and  three  corrupted  men, 

One,  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge,  and  the  second, 

Henry  Lord  Scroop  of  Masham,  and  the  third, 

Sir  Thomas  Grey,  knight,  of  Northumberland, 

Have  for  the  gilt  of  France — O  guilt  indeed! — 

Confirmed  conspiracy  with  fearful  France; 

And  by  their  hands  this  grace  of  kings  must  die, 

If  hell  and  treason  hold  their  promises, 

Ere  he  take  ship  for  France,  and  in  Southampton ! — 


HARFLEUR 

THUS  with  imagined  wing  our  swift  scene  flies 
In  motion  of  no  less  celerity 

Than  that  of  thought.     Suppose  that  you  have  seen 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  Pier 
Embark  his  royalty,  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamers  the  young  Phoebus  fanning: 
Play  with  your  fancies,  and  in  them  behold 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle  ship-boys  climbing; 
Hear  the  shrill  whistle  which  doth  order  give 
To  sounds  confused;  behold  the  threaden  sails, 
Borne  with  the  invisible  and  creeping  wind 
Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrowed  sea 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge.     O,  do  but  think 
You  stand  upon  the  rivage  and  behold 
A  city  on  the  inconstant  billows  dancing! 


4  SHAKESPEARE 

For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical, 
Holding  due  course  to  Harfleur.     Follow,  follow : 
Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage  of  this  navy, 
And  leave  your  England,  as  dead  midnight  still, 
Guarded  with  grandsires,  babies  and  old  women, 
Or  passed  or  not  arrived  to  pith  and  puissance; 
For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  enriched 
With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not  follow 
These  culled  and  choice-drawn  cavaliers  to  France? 
Work,  work  your  thoughts,  and  therein  see  a  siege : 
Behold  the  ordnance  on  their  carriages, 
With  fatal  mouths  gaping  on  girded  Harfleur. 
Suppose  the  ambassador  from  the  French  comes  back; 
Tells  Harry  that  the  king  doth  offer  him 
Katharine  his  daughter,  and  with  her  to  dowry 
Some  petty  and  unprofitable  dukedoms. 
The  offer  likes  not:  and  the  nimble  gunner 
With  linstock  now  the  devilish  cannon  touches, 
And  down  goes  all  before  them ! 

THE  EVE 

Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time 

When  creeping  murmur  and  the  poring  dark 

Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 

From  camp  to  camp  through  the  foul  womb  of  night 

The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds, 

That  the  fixed  sentinels  almost  receive 

The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch: 

Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly  flames 

Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umbered  face; 


SHAKESPEARE 

Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs 

Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear,  and  from  the  tents 

The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights, 

With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 

Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 

The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll, 

And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning  name. 

Proud  of  their  numbers  and  secure  in  soul, 

The  confident  and  over-lusty  French 

Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice, 

And  chide  the  cripple,  tardy-gaited  night 

Who  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch  doth  limp 

So  tediously  away.     The  poor  condemned  English, 

Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 

Sit  patiently  and  inly  ruminate 

The  morning's  danger,  and  their  gesture  sad, 

Investing  lank-lean  cheeks  and  war-worn  coats, 

Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 

So  many  horrid  ghosts.     O  now,  who  will  behold 

The  royal  captain  of  this  ruined  band 

Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent  to  tent, 

Let  him  cry  'Praise  and  glory  on  his  head ! ' 

For  forth  he  goes  and  visits  all  his  host, 

Bids  them  good-morrow  with  a  modest  smile, 

And  calls  them  brothers,  friends,  and  countrymen. 

Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note 

How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him; 

Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  colour 

Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night, 

But  freshly  looks  and  over-bears  attaint 

With  cheerful  semblance  and  sweet  majesty, 


DRAYTON 

That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before, 
Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks. 
A  largess  universal  like  the  sun 
His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one, 
Thawing  cold  fear,  that  mean  and  gentle  all, 
Behold,  as  may  unworthiness  define, 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night — 
And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  fly. 

Shakespeare. 

THE    BATTLE 

FAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 
And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour, 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power : 
Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending; 


DRAYTON 

Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 
Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
'  Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed. 
Yet  have  we  well  begun, 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me ; 
Victor  I  will  remain 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell; 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies.' 


DRAYTON 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped, 

Amongst  his  henchmen; 
Excesterhad  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there : 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone, 
Armour  on  armour  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake, 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ! 
When  from  the  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 
Piercing  the  weather; 


DRAYTON 

None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 
Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went; 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it, 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another ! 


10  SHAKESPEARE 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay, 

To  England  to  carry. 
O,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 

Draylon. 

AFTER 

Now  we  bear  the  king 

Toward  Calais :  grant  him  there ;  there  seen, 
Heave  him  away  upon  your  winged  thoughts 
Athwart  the  sea.     Behold,  the  English  beach 
Pales  in  the  flood  with  men,  with  wives  and  boys, 
Whose  shouts  and  claps  out-voice  the  deep-mouthed 

sea, 

Which  like  a  mighty  whiffler  'fore  the  king 
Seems  to  prepare  his  way :  so  let  him  land, 
And  solemnly  see  him  set  on  to  London. 
So  swift  a  pace  hath  thought  that  even  now 


WOTTON  11 

You  may  imagine  him  upon  Blackheath; 
Where  that  his  lords  desire  him  to  have  borne 
His  bruised  helmet  and  his  bended  sword 
Before  him  through  the  city:  he  forbids  it, 
Being  free  from  vainness  and  self-glorious  pride, 
(jiving  full  trophy,  signal  and  ostent, 
Quite  from  himself  to  God.     But  now  behold, 
In  the  quick  forge  and  working-house  of  thought, 
How  London  doth  pour  out  her  citizens ! 
The  mayor  and  all  his  brethren  in  best  sort, 
Like  to  the  senators  of  the  antique  Rome, 
With  the  plebeians  swarming  at  their  heels, 
Go  forth  and  fetch  their  conquering  Caesar  in! 

SJiakespeare. 


LORD  OF  HIMSELF 

How  happy  is  he  born  or  taught 
Who  serveth  not  another's  will; 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  highest  skill; 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death — 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 

Of  prince's  ear  or  vulgar  breath; 

Who  hath  his  ear  from  rumours  freed; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 


12  JONSON 

Who  envies  none  whom  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  with  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state  but  rules  of  good; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend, 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 

With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend — 

This  man  is  free  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall : 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Woiton. 


Ill 
TRUE  BALM 

HIGH-SPIRITED  friend, 
I  send  nor  balms  nor  corsives  to  your  wound ; 

Your  faith  hath  found 
A  gentler  and  more  agile  hand  to  tend 
The  cure  of  that  which  is  but  corporal, 
And  doubtful  days,  which  were  named  critical, 

Have  made  their  fairest  flight 

And  now  are  out  of  sight. 
Yet  doth  some  wholesome  physic  for  the  mind, 

Wrapped  in  this  paper  lie, 
Which  in  the  taking  if  you  misapply 
You  are  unkind. 


JONSON  :  FLETCHER  13 

Your  covetous  hand, 
Happy  in  that  fair  honour  it  hath  gained, 

Must  now  be  reined. 

True  valour  doth  her  own  renown  commend 
In  one  full  action;  nor  have  you  now  more 
To  do  than  be  a  husband  of  that  store. 

Think  but  how  dear  you  bought 

This  same  which  you  have  caught — 
Such  thoughts  will  make  you  more  in  love  with  truth. 

'Tis  wisdom,  and  that  high, 
For  men  to  use  their  fortune  reverently, 
Even  in  youth. 

IV 

HONOUR  IN   BUD 

IT  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk  doth  make  man  better  be : 

A  lily  of  a  day 

Is  fairer  far  in  May : 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 

Jonson. 

v 
THE  JOY  OF   BATTLE 

ARM,  arm,  arm,  arm!  the  scouts  are  all  come  in; 
Keep  your  ranks  close,  and  now  your  honours  win. 
Behold  from  yonder  hill  the  foe  appears; 
Bows,  bills,  glaives,  arrows,  shields,  and  spears! 


14  JOHN   FLETCHER 

Like  a  daric  wood  he  comes,  or  tempest  pouring; 
O  view  the  wings  of  horse  the  meadows  scouring! 
The  vanguard  marches  bravely.     Hark,  the  drums ! 

Dub,  dub ! 

They  meet,  they  meet,  and  now  the  battle  comes: 
See  how  the  arrows  fly 
That  darken  all  the  sky ! 
Hark  how  the  trumpets  sound ! 
Hark  how  the  hills  rebound — 

Tara,  tara,  tara,  tara,  tara! 

Hark  how  the  horses  charge !  in,  boys !  boys,  in ! 
The  battle  totters;  now  the  wounds  begin: 

O  how  they  cry ! 

O  how  they  die ! 
Room  for  the  valiant  Memnon,  armed  with  thunder ! 

See  how  he  breaks  the  ranks  asunder ! 
They  fly !  they  fly !  Eumenes  has  the  chase, 
And  brave  Polybius  makes  good  his  place : 

To  the  plains,  to  the  woods, 

To  the  rocks,  to  the  floods, 
They  fly  for  succour.     Follow,  follow,  follow ! 
Hark  how  the  soldiers  hollow ! 

Hey,  hey! 

Brave  Diocles  is  dead, 
And  all  his  soldiers  fled  ; 
The   battle's  won,  and  lost, 
That  many  a  life  hath  cost. 


BEAUMONT  :  HERRICK  15 

VI 

IN   WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

MORTALITY,  behold  and  fear! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here ! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  beneath  this  heap  of  stones ! 

Here  they  lie  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands. 

Here  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 

They  preach,  'In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 

Here  is  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  royall'st  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in, 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin. 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

'Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died.' 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings. 

Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state, 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

Beaumont. 

VII 
GOING  A-MAYING 

GET  up,  get  up  for  shame !    The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn: 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air : 


16  HERRICK 

Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew-bespangled  herb  and  tree ! 

Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  toward  the  east, 

Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  drest, 
Nay,  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 

Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 

Spring  sooner  than  the  lark  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth  like  the  spring-time  fresh  and  green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair : 

Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept. 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night, 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till   you   come   forth!      Wash,    dress,    be   brief   in 

praying: 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park, 

Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees !  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 


HERRICK  17 

Or  branch !  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see  't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad:  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May, 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying, 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day, 
But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth  ere  this  is  come 

Back  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream : 
And  some  have  wept  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given, 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 

Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament: 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  picked:  yet  we're  not  a-May- 
ing. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 


18  HERRICK 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun. 
And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight, 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then,  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

VIII 

TO  ANTHEA 

WHO   MAY   COMMAND   HIM   ANYTHING 

BID  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be; 
Or  bid  me  love  and  I  will  give 

A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free, 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay 

To  honour  thy  decree; 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And  't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see; 
And,  having  none,  yet  I  will  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 


HERBERT  19 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair 

Under  that  cypress-tree; 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 

E'en  death  to  die  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me, 
And  hast  command  of  every  part, 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

Herrick. 

DC 

MEMENTO  MORI 

SWEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright — 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky — 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul 
Like  seasoned  timber  never  gives, 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


20  SHIRLEY 


THE   KING    OF  KINGS 

THE  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things : 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate : 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  when  they  kill, 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield : 
They  tame  but  one  another  still. 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  their  brow — 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ! 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds ! 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb : 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


MILTON  21 

XI 

LYCIDAS 

YET  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer: 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string; 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse: 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn, 
And,  as  he  passes,  turn 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud! 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  selfsame  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn 


22  MILTON 

Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 

Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 

Towards  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering 

wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute; 
Rough  satyrs  danced,  and  fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long; 
And  old  Damcetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint- worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows, 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  Shepherds'  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream : 
Ay  me !  I  fondly  dream 

'Had  ye  been  there, '  .  .  .  for  what  could  that  have 
done? 


MILTON  23 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     '  But  not  the  praise,' 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears  : 
'  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies, 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed.' 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood  ! 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 


24:  MILTON 

And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea 

That  came  in  Neptune's  plea. 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ? 

And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 

They  knew  not  of  his  story, 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed  : 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

Built  in  the  eclipse  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next,  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
'Ah!  who  hath  reft,'  quoth  he,  'my  dearest  pledge?' 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
'How  well   could  I   have   spared    for   thee,    young 

swain, 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest; 


MILTON  25 

Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to 

hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 
What  recks  it  them?     What  need  they?    They  are 

sped; 

And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But,  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread : 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said : 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more.' 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 


26  MILTON 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears: 

Bid  Amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise; 

Ay  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled; 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold; 

Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new  spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of    Him  that  walked   the 

waves, 

Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 


MILTON  27 

There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay: 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay: 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue; 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

XII 

ARMS  AND  THE  MUSE 

WHEN  THE  ASSAULT  WAS   INTENDED  ON  THE  CHY 

CAPTAIN,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms, 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 

(Juard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms. 

He  can  requite  thee;  for  he  knows  the  charms 

That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 

And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  land  and  seas, 

Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower: 


28  MILTON 

The  great  Emanthian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground;  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 


XIII 

TO  THE   LORD   GENERAL 

CROMWELL,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 

Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 

Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 

To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud 

Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pursued, 

While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  imbrued, 

And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 

And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath:  yet  much  remains 

To  conquer  still;  peace  hath  her  victories 

No  less  renowned  than  war :  new  foes  arise, 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains. 

Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 

Of  hireling  wolves  whose  gospel  is  their  maw. 

XIV 

THE   LATE  MASSACRE   IN   PIEDMONT 

AVENGE,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 


MILTON  29 

When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not:  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  Tyrant;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 


xv 
ON   HIS  BLINDNESS 

WHEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide; 

'Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?  ' 

I  fondly  ask :  but  patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur  soon  replies:  'God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who  best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.     His  state 

Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 


30  MILTON 

XVI 

EYELESS  AT  GAZA 

THIS,  this  is  he;  softly  a  while; 

Let  us  not  break  in  upon  him. 

O  change  beyond  report,  thought,  or  belief ! 

See  how  he  lies  at  random,  carelessly  diffused 

With  languished  head  unpropt, 

As  one  past  hope,  abandoned, 

And  by  himself  given  over, 

In  slavish  habit,  ill-fitted  weeds 

O'er-worn  and  soiled. 

Or  do  my  eyes  misrepresent?     Can  this  be  he, 

That  heroic,  that  renowned, 

Irresistible  Samson?  whom  unarmed 

No  strength  of  man  or  fiercest  wild  beast  could  with- 
stand; 

Who  tore  the  lion,  as  the  lion  tears  the  kid; 

Ran  on  embattled  armies  clad  in  iron, 

And,  weaponless  himself, 

Made  arms  ridiculous,  useless  the  forgery 

Of  brazen  shield  and  spear,  the  hammered  cuirass, 

Chalybean-tempered  steel,  and  frock  of  mail 

Adamante'an  proof :   But  safest  he  who  stood  aloof, 

When  insupportably  his  foot  advanced, 

In  scorn  of  their  proud  arms  and  warlike  tools, 

Spurned  them  to  death  by  troops.  The  bold 
Ascalonite 

Fled  from  his  lion  ramp;  old  warriors  turned 

Their  plated  backs  under  his  heel, 

Or  grovelling  soiled  their  crested  helmets  in  the  dust. 


MONTROSE  31 

XVII 

OUT  OF  ADVERSITY 

O  HOW  comely  it  is,  and  how  reviving 
To  the  spirits  of  just  men  long  oppressed, 
When  God  into  the  hands  of  their  deliverer 
Puts  invincible  might 

To  quell  the  mighty  of  the  earth,  the  oppressor, 
The  brute  and  boisterous  force  of  violent  men, 
Hardy  and  industrious  to  support 
Tyrannic  power,  but  raging  to  pursue 
The  righteous  and  all  such  as  honour  truth ! 
He  all  their  ammunition 
And  feats  of  war  defeats, 
With  plain  heroic  magnitude  of  mind 
And  celestial  vigour  armed; 
Their  armouries  and  magazines  contemns, 
Renders  them  useless,  while 
With  winged  expedition 
Swift  as  the  lightning  glance  he  executes 
His  errand  on  the  wicked,  who,  surprised, 
Lose  their  defence,  distracted  and  amazed. 

Milton. 

XVIII 

HEROIC   LOVE 

MY  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy; 


32  LOVELACE 

For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone : 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 

But,  if  thou  wilt  prove  faithful  then 

And  constant  of  thy  word, 
I'll  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen, 

And  famous  by  my  sword ; 
I'll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before  ; 
I'll  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Montrose. 


XIX 

GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

TELL  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 


LOVELACE  33 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field, 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore : 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 


xx 

FROM   PRISON 

W'HEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  Gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Kuow  no  such  liberty. 


34  MARVELL 

When,  linnet-like  confined,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Lovelace. 

XXI 

TWO   KINGS 

THE  forward  youth  that  would  appear 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 
Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His*  numbers  languishing. 

'Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 
Removing  from  the  wall 
The  corselet  of  the  hall. 


MARVELL  35 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star; 

And,  like  the  three-forked  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 

Did  thorough  his  own  side 

His  fiery  way  divide; 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous  or  enemy, 

And  with  such  to  inclose 

Is  more  than  to  oppose; 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went, 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent; 

And  Caesar's  head  at  last 

Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  Heaven's  flame; 

And  if  we  would  speak  true, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere, 

As  if  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  the  bergamot, 

Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  Time, 

And  cast  the  kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould. 


36  MARVELL 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain 
(But  those  do  hold  or  break, 
As  men  are  strong  or  weak), 

Nature,  that  hated  emptiness, 

Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war, 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art, 

Where,  twining  subtile  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Car isb rook's  narrow  case, 

That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn : 
While  round  the  armed  bands, 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 
But  with  his  keener  eye 
The 'axe's  edge  did  try; 

Nor  called  the  gods  with  vulgar  spite 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right, 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 


MARVELL  37 

This  was  that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power: 

So,  when  they  did  design 

The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  bleeding  head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate ! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed : 
So  much  one  man  can  do 
That  doth  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 

And  have,  though  overcome,  confessed 

How  good  he  is,  how  just, 

And  fit  for  highest  trust; 

Nor  yet  grown  stiffer  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  Republic's  hand 

(How  fit  he  is  to  sway, 

That  can  so  well  obey !), 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 
A  kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents, 

And  (what  he  may)  forbears 

His  fame  to  make  it  theirs: 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt 
To  lay  them  at  the  public's  skirt. 

So  when  the  falcon  high 

Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 


38  MARVELL 

She,  having  killed,  no  more  doth  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch, 
Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 
The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

What  may  not  then  our  isle  presume 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume? 
What  may  not  others  fear 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year? 

As  Csesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  states  not  free 

Shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  party-coloured  mind, 
But  from  this  valour  sad 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid; 

Happy  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  thou,  the  war's  and  fortune's  son, 

March  indefatigably  on, 
And  for  the  last  effect, 
Still  keep  the  sword  erect: 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 
The  same  arts  that  did  gain, 
A  power  must  it  maintain. 


MARVELL 

XXII 

IN    EXILE 

WHERE  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  Ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 

'What  should  we  do  but  sing  his  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze, 
Where  he  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelates'  rage : 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows: 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet; 
Jiut  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 
From  I^ebanon  he  stores  the  land, 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergrease  on  shore. 


40  DRYDEN 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast, 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 
O  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt 
'Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  Bay!' 

Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note : 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Marvell. 

XXIII 

ALEXANDER'S   FEAST 

'TWAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son: 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned); 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair! 


DRYDEN  41 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love ! 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed, 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 

world. 

The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound; 
A  present  deity!  they  shout  around: 
A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound: 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god; 
Affects  to  nod 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician 

sung, 

Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young: 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums! 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 


42  DRYDEN 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes,  he  comes! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew 

the  slain! 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  Chance  below; 


DRYDEN  43 

And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sang,  is  toil  and  trouble, 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain ! 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder 

And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 


44  DRYDEN 

Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain: 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew ! 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy: 
And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And  like  another  Helen  fired  another  Troy ! 

Thus  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage  or  kindle  soft  desire. 


JOHNSON  45 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

Dryden. 


XXIV 

THE  QUIET  LIFE 

CONDEMNED  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sudden  blast  or  slow  decline 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend : 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye, 
Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind; 

Nor,  lettered  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 


46  JOHNSON 

When  fainting  Nature  called  for  aid, 
And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  displayed 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  caverns  known, 
His  ready  help  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  anguish  poured  his  groan, 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay, 
No  petty  gains  disdained  by  pride : 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void; 

And  sure  the  eternal  Master  found 
His  single  talent  well  employed. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 
Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by; 

His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 
Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then,  with  no  throbs  of  fiery  pain, 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 


BALLADS  47 

XXV 

CHEVY  CHACE 

THE   HUNTING 

GOD  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all; 
A  woeful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chace  befall; 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Erie  Percy  took  his  way; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn, 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer's  days  to  take, 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay : 

Who  sent  Erie  Percy  present  word, 

He  wold  prevent  his  sport. 
The  English  Erie,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort 


48  BALLADS 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  neede 

To  ayme  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran, 

To  chase  the  fallow  deere  : 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt, 

Ere  daylight  did  appeare  ; 

And  long  before  high  noone  they  had 
An  hundred  fat  buckes  slaine ; 

Then  having  dined,  the  drovyers  went 
To  rouse  the  deere  againe. 

The  bow-men  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
Their  backsides  all,  with  special  care 

That  day  were  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods, 

The  nimble  deere  to  take, 
And  with  their  cryes  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 
To  view  the  slaughtered  deere  : 

Quoth  he,  '  Erie  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  here, 

But  if  I  thought  he  wold  not  come, 

No  longer  wold  I  stay. ' 
With  that,  a  brave  younge  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Erie  did  say: 


BALLADS  49 

'Lo,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armour  bright; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speares 

All  marching  in  our  sight; 

All  men  of  pleasant  Tivydale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweede' : 
'O,  cease  your  sports,'  Erie  Percy  said, 

'And  take  your  bowes  with  speede; 

And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  courage  forth  advance, 
For  there  was  never  champion  yet, 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

That  ever  did  on  horsebacke  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

And  with  him  break  a  speare.' 

THE   CHALLENGE 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke-white  steede, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company, 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

'Show  me,'  said  he,  'whose  men  ye  be, 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deere.1 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make, 
Was  noble  Percy  he; 


50  BALLADS 

Who  sayd,  'We  list  not  to  declare, 
Nor  shew  whose  men  we  be, 

Yet  we  will  spend  our  dearest  blood, 
Thy  chief est  harts  to  slay.' 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say : 

'Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 
One  of  us  two  shall  dye : 

I  know  thee  well,  an  erle  thou  art; 
Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pittye  it  were, 

And  great  offence  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltlesse  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

Let  thou  and  I  the  battell  trye, 

And  set  our  men  aside.' 
'Accurst  be  he,'  Erie  Percy  said, 

'By  whom  this  is  denied.' 

Then  stept  a  gallant  squier  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name, 

Who  said,  'I  wold  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

That  ere  my  captaine  fought  on  foote, 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
Ye  be  two  erles,'  said  Witherington, 

'And  I  a  squier  alone: 

He  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 
While  I  have  power  to  stand : 


BALLADS  51 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 
He  fight  with  heart  and  hand. ' 

THE   BATTLE 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes, 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  trew, 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrowes  sent, 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  bides  Erie  Douglas  on  the  bent, 

As  Chieftain  stout  and  good. 
As  valiant  Captain,  all  unmoved 

The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  leader  ware  and  try'd, 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bare  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 

They  dealt  full  many  a  wound; 
But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 

All  firmly  kept  their  ground, 

And,  throwing  strait  their  bowes  away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright, 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side, 

No  slackness  there  was  found ; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 

I^iy  gasping  on  the  ground. 


52  BALLADS 

0  Christ !  it  was  a  griefe  to  see, 
And  likewise  for  to  heare, 

The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore, 
And  scattered  here  and  there ! 

At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 
Like  captaines  of  great  might: 

Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 
And  made  a  cruel  fight : 

They  fought  untill  they  both  did  sweat 
With  swords  of  tempered  steele; 

Until  the  blood  like  drops  of  rain 
They  trickling  downe  did  feele. 

'Yield  thee,  Lord  Percy,'  Douglas  said; 

'In  faith  I  will  thee  bringe, 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James  our  Scottish  king: 

Thy  ransome  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee, 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight, 

That  ever  I  did  see.' 

'No,  Douglas,'  quoth  Erie  Percy  then, 
'Thy  proffer  I  do  scorne; 

1  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot, 

That  ever  yet  was  borne. ' 

With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keene 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow : 


BALLADS 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these, 
'Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall.' 

Then  leaving  life,  Erie  Percy  tooke 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand; 
And  said,  'Erie  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Wold  I  had  lost  my  land ! 

O  Christ!  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

"With  sorrow  for  thy  sake, 
For  sure,  a  more  redoubted  knight 
Mischance  could  never  take.' 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was, 
Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye, 

Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Lord  Percye. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called 
Who,  with  a  speare  most  bright, 

Well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight, 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 

Without  or  dread  or  feare, 
And  through  Erie  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  speare. 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 


54  BALLADS 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye, 
Whose  courage  none  could  staine ! 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  Erie  was  slaine : 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

Up  to  the  head  drew  he; 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 
The  grey  goose-winge  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  bloode  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  breake  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell, 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

THE   SLAIN 

With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  was  slaine 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron; 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account, 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slaine, 
Whose  prowesse  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wayle, 
As  one  in  doleful  dumpes ; 


BALLADS  55 

For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 
He  fought  upon  his  stumpes. 

And  with  Erie  Douglas,  there  was  slaine 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 

One  foote  would  never  flee; 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  of  Ratcliff,  too, 

His  sister's  sonne  was  he; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

Yet  saved  he  could  not  be; 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speares, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  flye. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three: 
The  rest  were  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace, 

Under  the  greene  woode  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widdowes  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewayle; 
They  washt  their  wounds  in  brinish  teares, 

But  all  wold  not  prevayle; 

Their  bodyes,  bathed  in  purple  gore, 

They  bore  with  them  away; 
They  kist  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 


56  BALLADS 

THE   TIDINGS 

The  newes  was  brought  to  Eddenborrow, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  raigne, 

That  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenlye 
Was  with  an  arrow  slaine : 

'O  heavy  newes,'  King  James  did  say, 
'Scotland  may  witnesse  be, 

I  have  not  any  captaine  more 
Of  such  account  as  he. ' 

Like  tydings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace : 

'Now  God  be  with  him,'  said  our  king, 

'  Sith  it  will  no  better  be; 
I  trust  I  have,  within  my  realme, 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he : 

Yet  shall  not  Scots  nor  Scotland  say, 
But  I  will  vengeance  take : 

I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all, 
For  brave  Erie  Percy's  sake.' 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After,  at  Humbledovvne; 
In  one  day,  fifty  knights  were  slayne, 

With  lords  of  great  renowne, 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 
Did  many  thousands  dye. 


BALLADS  57 

Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chace, 
Made  by  the  Erie  Percye. 

God  save  our  king,  and  bless  this  land 

With  plentye,  joy,  and  peace, 
And  grant  henceforth  that  foule  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease ! 


XXVI 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

THE  King  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine: 

'O  whaur  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  o'  mine? ' 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 
Sat  at  the  King's  right  knee : 

'Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea.' 

Our  King  has  written  a  braid  letter 
And  sealed  it  wi'  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

'To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 
To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem; 

The  King's  daughter  to  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame.' 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 
Sac  loud,  loud  lauchcd  he; 


58  BALLADS 

The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 
The  tear  blinded  his  ee. 

'O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  King  of  me, 
To  send  us  out  at  this  time  o'  year 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem; 
The  King's  daughter  to  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  must  bring  her  name. ' 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monday  morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week, 

In  Noroway  but  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say : 

'Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  King's  goud 

And  a'  our  Queenis  fee.' 
'Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud, 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ! 

For  I  brought  as  mickle  white  monie 

As  gane  my  men  and  me, 
And  I  brought  a  half-fou  o'  gude  red  goud 

Out-o'er  the  sea  wi'  me. 

Mak'  ready,  mak'  ready,  my  merry  men  a' ! 
Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn.' 


BALLADS  59 

'Now,  ever  alake,  my  master  dear, 
I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 

I  saw  the  new  moon  late  yestreen 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm; 
And,  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm.' 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

'O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 

To  tak'  my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  gae  up  to  the  tall  topmast 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land? ' 

'O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 

To  tak'  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  gae  up  to  the  tall  topmast; 

But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land.' 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  bolt  flew  out  o'  our  goodly  ship, 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

'Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Anither  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side, 

And  letna  the  sea  come  in.' 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 
Anither  o'  the  twine, 


60  BALLADS 

And  they  wapped  them  round  that  gude  ship's  side, 
But  still  the  sea  cam'  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  milk-white  hands; 
But  lang  ere  a'  the  play  was  ower 

They  wat  their  gowden  bands. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon; 
But  lang  ere  a'  the  play  was  played 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  sit 

Wi'  their  fans  intill  their  hand, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand ! 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit 
Wi'  their  goud  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves! 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Half  ower,  half  ower  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

XXVII 

BRAVE   LORD  WILLOUGHBY 

THE  fifteenth  day  of  July, 

With  glistering  spear  and  shield, 

A  famous  fight  in  Flanders 
Was  foughten  in  the  field : 


BALLADS  61 

The  most  conspicuous  officers 

Were  English  captains  three, 
But  the  bravest  man  in  battel 

Was  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 

The  next  was  Captain  Norris, 

A  valiant  man  was  he : 
The  other,  Captain  Turner, 

From  field  would  never  flee. 
With  fifteen  hundred  fighting  men, 

Alas !  there  were  no  more, 
They  fought  with  forty  thousand  then 

Upon  the  bloody  shore. 

'Stand  to  it,  noble  pikeman, 

And  look  you  round  about: 
And  shoot  you  right,  you  bow-men, 

And  we  will  keep  them  out: 
You  musquet  and  cailiver  men, 

Do  you  prove  true  to  me, 
I'll  be  the  bravest  man  in  fight,' 

Says  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 

And  then  the  bloody  enemy 

They  fiercely  did  assail, 
And  fought  it  out  most  furiously, 

Not  doubting  to  prevail: 
The  wounded  men  on  both  sides  fell 

Most  piteous  for  to  see, 
But  nothing  could  the  courage  quell 

Of  brave  Ixml  Willoughby. 


62  BALLADS 

For  seven  hours  to  all  men's  view 

This  fight  endured  sore, 
Until  our  men  so  feeble  grew 

That  they  could  fight  no  more; 
And  then  upon  dead  horses 

Full  savourly  they  eat, 
And  drank  the  puddle  water, 

That  could  no  better  get. 

When  they  had  fed  so  freely, 

They  kneeled  on  the  ground, 
And  praised  God  devoutly 

For  the  favour  they  had  found; 
And  bearing  up  their  colours, 

The  fight  they  did  renew, 
And  cutting  tow'rds  the  Spaniard, 

Five  thousand  more  they  slew. 

The  sharp  steel-pointed  arrows 

And  bullets  thick  did  fly; 
Then  did  our  valiant  soldiers 

Charge  on  most  furiously: 
Which  made  the  Spaniards  waver, 

They  thought  it  best  to  flee : 
They  feared  the  stout  behaviour 

Of  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 

Then  quoth  the  Spanish  general, 
'Come,  let  us  march  away, 

I  fear  we  shall  be  spoiled  all 
If  that  we  longer  stay : 


BALLADS  63 

For  yonder  comes  Lord  Willoughby 

With  courage  fierce  and  fell, 
He  will  not  give  one  inch  of  ground 

For  all  the  devils  in  hell.' 

And  when  the  fearful  enemy 

Was  quickly  put  to  flight, 
Our  men  pursued  courageously 

To  rout  his  forces  quite; 
And  at  last  they  gave  a  shout 

Which  echoed  through  the  sky: 
'God,  and  St.  George  for  England! ' 

The  conquerors  did  cry. 

This  news  was  brought  to  England 

With  all  the  speed  might  be, 
And  soon  our  gracious  Queen  was  told 

Of  this  same  victory. 
'O !  this  is  brave  Lord  Willoughby, 

My  love  that  ever  won : 
Of  all  the  lords  of  honour 

'Tis  he  great  deeds  hath  done ! ' 

To  the  soldiers  that  were  maimed, 

And  wounded  in  the  fray, 
The  queen  allowed  a  pension 

Of  fifteen  pence  a  day, 
And  from  all  costs  and  charges 

She  quit  and  set  them  free : 
And  this  she  did  all  for  the  sake 

Of  brave  Ix>rd  Willoughby. 


64  BALLADS 

Then  courage,  noble  Englishmen, 

And  never  be  dismayed ! 
If  that  we  be  but  one  to  ten, 

We  will  not  be  afraid 
To  fight  with  foreign  enemies, 

And  set  our  country  free. 
And  thus  I  end  the  bloody  bout 

Of  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 


XXVIII 

HUGHIE  THE  GR^ME 

GOOD  Lord  Scroope  to  the  hills  is  gane, 

Hunting  of  the  fallow  deer; 
And  he  has  grippit  Hughie  the  Graeme 

For  stealing  of  the  Bishop's  mare. 

'Now,  good  Lord  Scroope,  this  may  not  be! 

Here  hangs  a  broadsword  by  my  side; 
And  if  that  thou  canst  conquer  me, 

The  matter  it  may  soon  be  tried. ' 

'I  ne'er  was  afraid  of  a  traitor  thief; 

Although  thy  name  be  Hughie  the  Graeme, 
I'll  make  thee  repent  thee  of  thy  deeds, 

If  God  but  grant  me  life  and  time.' 

But  as  they  were  dealing  their  blows  so  free, 
And  both  so  bloody  at  the  time, 

Over  the  moss  came  ten  yeomen  so  tall, 
All  for  to  take  bold  Hughie  the  Graeme. 


BALLADS  65 

O  then  they  grippit  Hughie  the  Graeme, 
And  brought  him  up  through  Carlisle  town: 

The  lads  and  lasses  stood  on  the  walls, 

Crying,    'Hughie   the   Graeme,  thou'se  ne'er 
gae  down ! ' 

'O  loose  my  right  hand  free,'  he  says, 

'And  gie  me  my  sword  o'  the  metal  sae  fine, 

He's  no  in  Carlisle  town  this  day 

Daur  tell  the  tale  to  Hughie  the  Graeme.' 

Up  then  and  spake  the  brave  Whitefoord, 

As  he  sat  by  the  Bishop's  knee, 
'Twenty  white  owsen,  my  gude  lord, 

If  ye'll  grant  Hughie  the  Graeme  to  me.' 

'O  haud  your  tongue,'  the  Bishop  says, 
'And  wi'  your  pleading  let  me  be; 

For  tho'  ten  Grahams  were  in  his  coat, 
They  suld  be  hangit  a'  for  me. ' 

Up  then  and  spake  the  fair  Whitefoord, 

As  she  sat  by  the  Bishop's  knee, 
*A  peck  o'  white  pennies,  my  good  lord, 

If  ye'll  grant  Hughie  the  Graeme  to  me.' 

'O  haud  your  tongue  now,  lady  fair, 

Forsooth,  and  so  it  sail  na  be; 
Were  he  but  the  one  Graham  of  the  name, 

He  suld  be  hangit  high  for  me.' 

They've  ta'en  him  to  the  gallows  knowe, 

He  looked  to  the  gallows  tree, 
Yet  never  colour  left  his  cheek, 

Nor  ever  did  he  blink  his  e'e. 


I  BALLADS 

He  looked  over  his  left  shoulder 

To  try  whatever  he  could  see, 
And  he  was  aware  of  his  auld  father, 

Tearing  his  hair  most  piteouslie. 

'O  haud  your  tongue,  my  father  dear, 
And  see  that  ye  dinna  weep  for  me ! 

For  they  may  ravish  me  o'  my  life, 

But  they  canna  banish  me  fro'  Heaven  hie. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brither  John 

My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  clear, 

And  let  him  come  at  twelve  o'clock, 
And  see  me  pay  the  Bishop's  mare. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brither  James 

My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  brown, 

And  bid  him  come  at  four  o'clock, 
And  see  his  brither  Hugh  cut  down. 

And  ye  may  tell  my  kith  and  kin 
I  never  did  disgrace  their  blood; 

And  when  they  meet  the  Bishop's  cloak, 
To  mak'  it  shorter  by  the  hood.' 

XXIX 

KINMONT  WILLIE 

THE   CAPTURE 

O  HAVE  ye  na  heard  o'  the  fause  Sakelde? 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  keen  Lord  Scroope? 
How  they  hae  ta'en  bold  Kinmont  Willie, 

On  Haribee  to  hang  him  up? 


BALLADS  67 

Had  Willie  had  but  twenty  men, 

But  twenty  men  as  stout  as  he, 
Pause  Sakelde  had  never  the  Kinmont  ta'en, 

Wi'  eight  score  in  his  cumpanie. 

They  band  his  legs  beneath  the  steed, 
They  tied  his  hands  behind  his  back; 

They  guarded  him  fivesome  on  each  side, 
And  they  brought  him  ower  the  Liddel-rack. 

They  led  him  thro'  the  Liddel-rack, 

And  also  thro'  the  Carlisle  sands; 
They  brought  him  on  to  Carlisle  castle 

I'o  be  at  ray  Lord  Scroope's  commands. 

'My  hands  are  tied,  but  my  tongue  is  free, 

And  wha  will  dare  this  deed  avow? 
Or  answer  by  the  Border  law? 

Or  answer  to  the  bold  Buccleuch?  ' 

'Now  haud  thy  tongue,  thou  rank  reiver! 

There's  never  a  Scot  shall  set  thee  free: 
Before  ye  cross  my  castle  yett, 

I  trow  ye  shall  take  farewell  o'  me.' 

'Fear  na  ye  that,  my  lord,'  quo'  Willie: 

'By  the  faith  o'  my  body,  Lord  Scroope, '  he  s:iid, 

'I  never  yet  lodged  in  a  hostelrie 
But  I  paid  my  lawing  before  I  gaed.' 

THE  KKEPKR'S  WRATH 

Now  word  is  gane  to  the  bold  Keeper, 
In  Branksome  Ha'  where  that  he  lay, 


G8  BALLADS 

That  Lord  Scroope  has  ta'en  the  Kinmont  Willie, 
Between  the  hours  of  night  and  day. 

He  has  ta'en  the  table  wi'  his  hand, 
He  garred  the  red  wine  spring  on  hie : 

'  Now  a  curse  upon  my  head,'  he  said, 
'But  avenged  of  Lord  Scroope  I'll  be  ! 

O  is  my  basnet  a  widow's  curch? 

Or  my  lance  a  wand  of  the  willow-tree? 
Or  my  arm  a  lady's  lily  hand, 

That  an  English  lord  should  lightly  me ! 

And  have  they  ta'en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Against  the  truce  of  Border  tide? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bold  Buccleuch 

Is  keeper  here  on  the  Scottish  side? 

And  have  they  e'en  ta'en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Withouten  either  dread  or  fear? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bold  Buccleuch 

Can  back  a  steed  or  shake  a  spear? 

0  were  there  war  between  the  lands, 
As  well  I  wot  that  there  is  none, 

1  would  slight  Carlisle  castle  high, 
Though  it  were  builded  of  marble  stone. 

I  would  set  that  castle  in  a  lowe, 
And  slocken  it  with  English  blood! 

There's  never  a  man  in  Cumberland 
Should  ken  where  Carlisle  castle  stood. 

But  since  nae  war's  between  the  lands, 
And  there  is  peace,  and  peace  should  be, 


BALLADS  69 

I'll  neither  harm  English  lad  or  lass, 
And  yet  the  Kinmont  freed  shall  be ! ' 

THE   MARCH 

He  has  called  him  forty  Marchmen  bold, 

I  trow  they  were  of  his  ain  name, 
Except  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  called 

The  Laird  of  Stobs,  I  mean  the  same. 

He  has  called  him  forty  Marchmen  bold, 
Were  kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch; 

With  spur  on  heel,  and  splent  on  spauld, 
And  gluves  of  green,  and  feathers  blue. 

There  were  five  and  five  before  them  a', 
Wi'  hunting-horns  and  bugles  bright: 

And  five  and  five  cam'  wi'  Buccleuch, 
Like  warden's  men,  arrayed  for  fight. 

And  five  and  five  like  a  mason  gang 
That  carried  the  ladders  lang  and  hie; 

And  five  and  five  like  broken  men; 

And  so  they  reached  the  Woodhouselee. 

And  as  we  crossed  the  'Rateable  Land, 
When  to  the  English  side  we  held, 

The  first  o'  men  that  we  met  wi', 
Whae  suld  it  be  but  fause  Sakelde? 

'Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  hunters  keen? ' 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde;   'come  tell  to  me! ' 

'We  go  to  hunt  an  English  stag 

Has  trespassed  on  the  Scots  countrie.1 


70  BALLADS 

'Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  marshal  men?  ' 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde;  'come  tell  me  true! ' 

'We  go  to  catch  a  rank  reiver 

Has  broken  faith  wi'  the  bold  Buccleuch.' 

'Where  are  ye  gaun,  ye  mason  lads, 

Wi'  a'  your  ladders  lang  and  hie? ' 
'We  gang  to  herry  a  corbie's  nest 

That  wons  not  far  frae  Woodhouselee.' 

'Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  broken  men?  ' 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde;  'come  tell  to  me!' 

Now  Dickie  of  Dryhope  led  that  band, 
And  the  never  a  word  of  lear  had  he. 

'Why  trespass  ye  on  the  English  side? 

Row-footed  outlaws,  stand!'  quo'  he; 
The  never  a  word  had  Dickie  to  say, 

Sae  he  thrust  the  lance  through  his  fause  bodie. 

Then  on  we  held  for  Carlisle  toun, 

And  at  Staneshaw-Bank  the  Eden  we  crossed; 

The  water  was  great  and  meikle  of  spait, 
But  the  never  a  horse  nor  man  we  lost. 

And  when  we  reached  the  Staneshaw-Bank, 

The  wind  was  rising  loud  and  hie; 
And  there  the  Laird  garred  leave  our  steeds, 

For  fear  that  they  should  stamp  and  neigh. 

And  when  we  left  the  Staneshaw-Bank, 

The  wind  began  full  loud  to  blaw; 
But  'twas  wind  and  weet,  and  fire  and  sleet, 

When  we  came  beneath  the  castle  wa'. 


BALLADS  71 

We  crept  on  knees,  and  held  our  breath, 
Till  we  placed  the  ladders  against  the  wa'; 

And  sae  ready  was  Buccleuch  himsell 
To  mount  the  first  before  us  a'. 

He  has  ta'en  the  watchman  by  the  throat, 
He  flung  him  down  upon  the  lead : 

'Had  there  not  been  peace  between  our  lands, 
Upon  the  other  side  thou'dst  gaed ! 

Now  sound  out,  trumpets! '  quo'  Buccleuch; 

'Let's  waken  Lord  Scroope  right  merrilie!' 
Then  loud  the  warden's  trumpet  blew 

O  who,  dare  meddle  w?  me  / 


THE   RESCUE 

Then  speedilie  to  wark  we  gaed, 
And  raised  the  slogan  ane  and  a', 

And  cut  a  hole  through  a  sheet  of  lead, 
And  so  we  wan  to  the  castle  ha'. 

They  thought  King  James  and  a'  his  men 
Had  won  the  house  wi'  bow  and  spear; 

It  was  but  twenty  Scots  and  ten 
That  put  a  thousand  in  sic  a  stear ! 

Wi'  coulters  and  wi'  forehammers 
We  garred  the  bars  bang  merrilie, 

Until  we  came  to  the  inner  prison, 
Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did  lie. 

And  when  we  cam'  to  the  lower  prison, 
Where  Willie  o1  Kinmont  he  did  lie: 


72  BALLADS 

*O  sleep  ye,  wake  ye,  Kinmont  Willie, 
Upon  the  morn  that  thou's  to  die? ' 

'O  I  sleep  saft,  and  I  wake  aft; 

It's  lang  since  sleeping  was  fleyed  frae  me ! 
Gie  my  service  back  to  my  wife  and  bairns, 

And  a'  gude  fellows  that  spier  for  me.' 

Then  Red  Rowan  has  hente  him  up, 

The  starkest  man  in  Teviotdale : 
'Abide,  abide  now,  Red  Rowan, 

Till  of  my  Lord  Scroope  I  take  farewell. 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  gude  Lord  Scroope ! 

My  gude  Lord  Scroope,  farewell ! '  he  cried; 
'I'll  pay  you  for  my  lodging  maill, 

When  first  we  meet  on  the  Border  side.' 

Then  shoulder  high  with  shout  and  cry 
We  bore  him  down  the  ladder  lang; 

At  every  stride  Red  Rowan  made, 

I  wot  the  Kinmont's  aims  played  clang. 

'O  mony  a  time,'  quo'  Kinmont  Willie, 
'I  have  ridden  horse  baith  wild  and  wood; 

But  a  rougher  beast  than  Red  Rowan 
I  ween  my  legs  have  ne'er  bestrode. 

And  mony  a  time,'  quo'  Kinmont  Willie, 
'I've  pricked  a  horse  out  oure  the  furs; 

But  since  the  day  I  backed  a  steed, 
I  never  wore  sic  cumbrous  spurs ! ' 

We  scarce  had  won  the  Staneshaw-Bank 
When  a'  the  Carlisle  bells  were  rung, 


BALLADS  73 

And  a  thousand  men  on  horse  and  foot 
Cam'  wi'  the  keen  Lord  Scroope  along. 

Buccleuch  has  turned  to  Eden  Water, 
Even  where  it  flowed  frae  bank  to  brim, 

And  he  has  plunged  in  wi'  a'  his  band, 
And  safely  swam  them  through  the  stream. 

He  turned  him  on  the  other  side, 

And  at  Lord  Scroope  his  glove  flung  he: 

'If  ye  like  na  my  visit  in  merrie  England, 
In  fair  Scotland  come  visit  me ! ' 

All  sore  astonished  stood  Lord  Scroope, 

He  stood  as  still  as  rock  of  stane; 
He  scarcely  dared  to  trew  his  eyes, 

When  through  the  water  they  had  gane. 

'He  is  either  himsell  a  devil  frae  hell, 
Or  else  his  mother  a  witch  maun  be; 

I  wadna  have  ridden  that  wan  water 
For  a'  the  gowd  in  Christentie.' 

XXX 

THE   HONOUR  OF  BRISTOL 

ATTEND  you,  and  give  ear  awhile, 

And  you  shall  understand 
Of  a  battle  fought  upon  the  seas 

IJy  a  ship  of  brave  command. 
The  fight  it  was  so  glorious 

Men's  hearts  it  did  fill-fill, 
And  it  made  them  cry,  'To  sea,  to  sea, 

With  the  Angel  Gabriel!' 


74  BALLADS 

This  lusty  ship  of  Bristol 

Sailed  out  adventurously 
Against  the  foes  of  England, 

Her  strength  with  them  to  try: 
Well  victualled,  rigged,  and  manned  she  was, 

With  good  provision  still, 
Which  made  men  cry,  'To  sea,  to  sea, 

With  the  Angel  Gabriel ! ' 

The  Captain,  famous  Netherway 

(That  was  his  noble  name)  : 
The  Master — he  was  called  John  Mines — 

A  mariner  of  fame : 
The  Gunner,  Thomas  Watson, 

A  man  of  perfect  skill : 
With  many  another  valiant  heart 

In  the  Angel  Gabriel. 

They  waving  up  and  down  the  seas 

Upon  the  ocean  main, 
'It  is  not  long  ago,'  quoth  they, 

'That  England  fought  with  Spain: 
O  would  the  Spaniard  we  might  meet 

Our  stomachs  to  fulfil ! 
We  would  play  him  fair  a  noble  bout 

With  our  Angel  Gabriel ! ' 

They  had  no  sooner  spoken 

But  straight  appeared  in  sight 
Three  lusty  Spanish  vessels 

Of  warlike  trim  and  might; 


BALLADS  75 

With  bloody  resolution 

They  thought  our  men  to  spill, 
And  they  vowed  that  they  would  make  a  prize 

Of  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

Our  gallant  ship  had  in  her 

Full  forty  fighting  men: 
With  twenty  piece  of  ordnance 

We  played  about  them  then, 
With  powder,  shot,  and  bullets 

Right  well  we  worked  our  will, 
And  hot  and  bloody  grew  the  fight 

With  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

Our  Captain  to  our  Master  said, 

'Take  courage,  Master  bold ! ' 
Our  Master  to  the  seamen  said, 

'Stand  fast,  my  hearts  of  gold! ' 
Our  Gunner  unto  all  the  rest, 

'Brave  hearts,  be  valiant  still! 
Fight  on,  fight  on  in  the  defence 

Of  our  Angel  Gabriel ! ' 

We  gave  them  such  a  broadside, 

It  smote  their  mast  asunder, 
And  tore  the  bowsprit  off  their  ship, 

Which  made  the  Spaniards  wonder, 
And  caused  them  in  fear  to  cry, 

With  voices  loud  and  shrill, 
'Help,  help,  or  sunken  we  shall  be 

By  the  Angel  Gabriel ! ' 


76  BALLADS 

So  desperately  they  boarded  us 

For  all  our  valiant  shot, 
Threescore  of  their  best  fighting  men 

Upon  our  decks  were  got; 
And  lo !  at  their  first  entrances 

Full  thirty  did  we  kill, 
And  thus  we  cleared  with  speed  the  deck 

Of  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

With  that  their  three  ships  boarded  us 

Again  with  might  and  main, 
But  still  our  noble  Englishmen 

Cried  out,  'A  fig  for  Spain! ' 
Though  seven  times  they  boarded  us 

At  last  we  showed  our  skill, 
And  made  them  feel  what  men  we  were 

On  the  Angel  Gabriel. 

Seven  hours  this  fight  continued : 

So  many  men  lay  dead, 
With  Spanish  blood  for  fathoms  round 

The  sea  was  coloured  red. 
Five  hundred  of  their  fighting  men 

We  there  outright  did  kill, 
And  many  more  were  hurt  and  maimed 

By  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

Then,  seeing  of  these  bloody  spoils, 

The  rest  made  haste  away : 
For  why,  they  said,  it  was  no  boot 

The  longer  there  to  stay. 


BALLADS  77 

Then  they  fled  into  Cales, 

Where  lie  they  must  and  will 
For  fear  lest  they  should  meet  again 

With  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

We  had  within  our  English  ship 

But  only  three  men  slain, 
And  five  men  hurt,  the  which  I  hope 

Will  soon  be  well  again. 
At  Bristol  we  were  landed, 

And  let  us  praise  God  still, 
That  thus  hath  blest  our  lusty  hearts 

And  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

XXXI 

HELEN   OF  KIRKCONNELL 

I  WISH  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me ! 

O  thinkna  ye  my  heart  was  s.fir 
When  my  love  dropt  down,  and  spak'  nae  mair? 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 


78  BALLADS 

As  I  went  down  the  water  side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma' 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair  beyond  compare ! 
I'll  mak'  a  garland  o'  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  dee ! 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  '  Haste,  and  come  to  me ! ' 

0  Helen  fair !  O  Helen  chaste ! 
If  I  were  with  thee  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  e'en, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying 

On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries, 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


BALLADS  79 

XXXII 

THE  TWA  CORBIES 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane: 

The  tane  unto  the  tither  say, 

'Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  the  day?' 

'In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke 

I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight; 

And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 

But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 

His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
Sae  we  may  mak'  our  dinner  sweet. 

Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pike  out  his  bonny  blue  e'en: 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  thcek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

Mony  a  one  for  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane: 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair.' 


80  GRAY 

XXXIII 

THE   BARD 

'RuiN  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ! 
Though  fanned  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears! ' 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array: 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance; 
'To  arms! '  cried  Mortimer,  and  couched  his  quiver- 
ing lance. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air), 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre : 
'Hark,  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert-cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath ! 
O'er  thee,  O  King!  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 


GRAY  81 

Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 

To  high-born  Hoel's  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 


'Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main: 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie 
Smeared  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale : 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail; 

The  famished  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries! — 
No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit;  they  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land: 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

'Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race: 

Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 

Mark  the  year  and  mark  the  night 

When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 


82  GRAY 

The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkeley's  roof  that  ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonising  king! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heaven !  What  terrors  round  him  wait ! 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

'Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies ! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes: 

Youth  on  the  prow  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm : 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hushed  in  grim  repose  expects  his  evening 
prey. 

'Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast: 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 


GRAY  83 

Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
And   through   the   kindred   squadrons   mow  their 
way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head! 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread: 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
Stamp   we   our  vengeance    deep,    and   ratify   his 
doom. 

'  Edward,  lo !  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof;  the  thread  is  spun;) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove;  the  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  O  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track  that  fires  the  western  skies 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  O !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail : 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings!  Hritannia's  issue,  hail! 


84  GRAY 

'Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line : 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin  grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play? 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls  and,  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves   in   the   eye   of   Heaven   her   many-coloured 
wings. 

'The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War  and  faithful  Love 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  fiction  drest. 

In  buskined  measures  move 
Pale  Grief  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 
A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-choir 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud, 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me :  with  joy  I  see 


COWPER  85 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign: 
Be  thine  Despair  and  sceptred  Care, 

To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine.' 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night. 

Gray. 
XXXIV 

THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

TOLL  for  the  Brave ! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 
Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 
And  she  was  overset; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 
Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 
No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 


86  COWPER 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up 
Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main: 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 
His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


XXXV 

BOADICEA 

WHEN  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 

Sought  with  an  indignant  mien 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief, 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief : 


COWPER  87 

'Princess!  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

JTis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

Rome  shall  perish, — write  that  word 

In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt; 
Perish  hopeless  and  abhorred, 

Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 

Tramples  on  a  thousand  states; 
Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground, 

Hark !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates ! 

Other  Romans  shall  arise 

Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name; 
Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 

Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 

From  the  forests  of  our  land, 
Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 

Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway; 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

None  invincible  as  they.' 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 


88  GRAHAM  OF  GARTMORE 

She  with  all  a  monarch's  pride 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow, 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died, 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe : 

'Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 
Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you.' 

Cowper. 
XXXVI 

TO   HIS  LADY 

IF  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 

Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed; 
And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colours  in  my  cap 

Thy  picture  at  my  heart; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee ! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye 

I'll  dight  me  in  array; 
I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 


DIBDIN 

If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear 
These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch; 

Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysell, 
That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me, 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 
O  tell  me  how  to  woo ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee ! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

Graham  of  Gartmore. 
XXXVII 

CONSTANCY 

BLOW  high,  blow  low,  let  tempests  tear 

The  mainmast  by  the  board; 
My  heart,  with  thoughts  of  thee,  my  dear, 

And  love  well  stored, 
Shall  brave  all  danger,  scorn  all  fear, 

The  roaring  winds,  the  raging  sea, 
In  hopes  on  shore  to  be  once  more 

Safe  moored  with  thee! 


90  DIBDIN 

Aloft  while  mountains  high  we  go, 

The  whistling  winds  that  scud  along, 
And  surges  roaring  from  below, 

Shall  my  signal  be  to  think  on  thee, 
And  this  shall  be  my  song: 
Blow  high,  blow  low — 

And  on  that  night,  when  all  the  crew, 

The  memory  of  their  former  lives 
O'er  flowing  cans  of  flip  renew, 

And  drink  their  sweethearts  and  their  wives, 
I'll  heave  a  sigh  and  think  on  thee, 
And,  as  the  ship  rolls  through  the  sea, 
The  burden  of  my  song  shall  be : 
Blow  high,  blow  low — 

XXXVIII 

THE  PERFECT  SAILOR 

HERE,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew; 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft, 
Faithful,  below,  he  did  his  duty, 

But  now  he's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare, 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted, 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair; 


CURRAN  91 

And  then  he'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly, 

Ah,  many's  the  time  and  oft! 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together, 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doffed, 
For,  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  has  gone  aloft. 

Dibdin. 


XXXIX 

THE   DESERTER 

IF  sadly  thinking, 
With  spirits  sinking, 
Could  more  than  drinking 

My  cares  compose, 
A  cure  for  sorrow 
From  sighs  I'd  borrow, 
And  hope  to-morrow 

Would  end  my  woes. 
But  as  in  wailing 
There's  nought  availing, 
And  Death  unfailing 

Will  strike  the  blow, 


92  PRINCE  HOARE 

Then  for  that  reason, 
And  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry 
Before  we  go. 

To  joy  a  stranger, 
A  way-worn  ranger, 
In  every  danger 

My  course  I've  run; 
Now  hope  all  ending, 
And  Death  befriending, 
His  last  aid  lending, 

My  cares  are  done : 
No  more  a  rover, 
Or  hapless  lover, 
My  griefs  are  over, 

My  glass  runs  low; 
Then  for  that  reason, 
And  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry 

Before  we  go ! 

Curran. 

XL 
THE  ARETHUSA 

COME,  all  ye  jolly  sailors  bold, 

Whose  hearts  are  cast  in  honour's  mould, 

While  English  glory  I  unfold, 

Huzza  for  the  Arethusa ! 
She  is  a  frigate  tight  and  brave, 
As  ever  stemmed  the  dashing  wave; 


PRINCE  HOARE  93 

Her  men  are  staunch 

To  their  fav'rite  launch, 
And  when  the  foe  shall  meet  our  fire, 
Sooner  than  strike,  we'll  all  expire 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 


'Twas  with  the  spring  fleet  she  went  out 
The  English  Channel  to  cruise  about, 
When  four  French  sail,  in  show  so  stout 

Bore  down  on  the  Arethusa. 
The  famed  Belle  Poule  straight  ahead  did  lie, 
The  Arethusa  seemed  to  fly, 

Not  a  sheet,  or  a  tack, 

Or  a  brace,  did  she  slack ; 
Though  the  Frenchman  laughed  and  thought  it 

stuff, 
But  they  knew  not  the  handful  of  men,  how  tough, 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 

On  deck  five  hundred  men  did  dance, 
The  stoutest  they  could  find  in  France; 
We  with  two  hundred  did  advance 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 
Our  captain  hailed  the  Frenchman,  'Ho! ' 
The  Frenchman  then  cried  out  'Hallo! ' 

'Bear  down,  d'ye  see, 

To  our  Admiral's  lee ! ' 

'No,  no,'  says  the  Frenchman,  'that  can't  be! ' 
'Then  I  must  lug  you  along  with  me,' 

Says  the  saucy  Arethusa. 


94  BLAKE 

The  fight  was  off  the  Frenchman's  land, 
We  forced  them  back  upon  their  strand, 
For  we  fought  till  not  a  stick  could  stand 

Of  the  gallant  Arethusa. 
And  now  we've  driven  the  foe  ashore 
Never  to  fight  with  Britons  more, 

Let  each  fill  his  glass 

To  his  fav'rite  lass; 

A  health  to  our  captain  and  officers  true, 
And  all  that  belong  to  the  jovial  crew 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 

Prince  Hoare. 


XLI 

THE  BEAUTY  OF  TERROR 

TIGER,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 


BURNS  95 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

Blake. 

XLH 

DEFIANCE 

FAREWELL,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie: 
M'Pherson's  time  will  not  be  long 

On  yonder  gallows  tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he; 
He  played  a  spring  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath? — 

On  monie  a  bloody  plain 
I've  dared  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again! 


96  BURNS 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword ! 
And  there's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I'll  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I've  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife; 

I  die  by  treacherie  : 
It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky ! 
May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die ! 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he; 
He  played  a  spring  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 


XLIII 
THE  GOAL  OF  LIFE 

SHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


BURNS  97 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidled  i'  the  burn 

From  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


XLIV 
BEFORE   PARTING 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 
An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie; 

That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 
A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie. 


98  BURNS 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 
Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry, 

The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 
And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready, 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody; 
But  it's  no  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry, 
Nor  shout  o'  war  that's  heard  afar, 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 


XLV 
DEVOTION 

O  MARY,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  mak  the  miser's  treasure  poor. 

How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 
A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 

Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 
The  lovely  Mary  Morison ! 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw : 


BURNS  99 

Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  toun, 

I  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
'Ye  are  ua  Mary  Morison.' 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his 

Whase  only  f aut  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ! 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


XLVI 
TRUE  UNTIL  DEATH 

IT  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  King, 
We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand; 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  King 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land, 
My  dear, 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

Now  a'  is  done  that  men  can  do, 
And  a'  is  done  in  vain: 

My  love  and  native  land  farewell, 
For  I  maun  cross  the  main, 

My  dear, 
For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 


100  WORDSWORTH 

He  turned  him  right  and  round  about 

Upon  the  Irish  shore; 
And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

With  adieu  for  evermore, 
My  dear, 

Adieu  for  evermore. 

The  sodger  from  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main; 
But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love, 

Never  to  meet  again, 
My  dear, 

Never  to  meet  again. 

When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come, 
And  a'  folk  bound  to  sleep; 

I  think  on  him  that's  far  awa, 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 
My  dear, 

The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 

Burns. 

XLVII 
VENICE 

ONCE  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West :  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 
And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 


WORDSWORTH  101 

She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay; 

Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day : 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 

Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 

XLvm 
DESTINY 

IT  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  'with  pomp  of  waters,  unwithstood,' 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 
Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, 
That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  bogs  and  sands 
Should  perish;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armoury  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old : 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare  spake;  the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held.     In  everything  we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 

XI.IX 

THE   MOTHERLAND 

WHEN  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 


102  WORDSWORTH 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  Country ! — am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

But  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child ! 


IDEAL 

MILTON!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 

England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men; 

Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  itself  did  lay. 


WORDSWORTH  103 

LJ 

TO   DUTY 

STERN  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 
\Vho  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  Hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
May  joy  be  theirs  while  life  shall  last! 
And  Thou,    if   they   should  totter,    teach   them  to 
stand  fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Kven  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 


101  WORDSWORTH 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 
Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And   the   most  ancient  heavens,   through  thee,   are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power ! 
I  call  thee :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
O  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 


WORDSWORTH  105 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live ! 


LTI 
TWO  VICTORIES 

I  SAID,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 

No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 

A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth ! 

Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  Youth, 

And  thankful  through  a  weary  time 

That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 

Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will, 

And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill : 

His  garb  is  humble;  ne'er  was  seen 

Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien; 

Among  the  shepherd  grooms  no  mate 

Hath  he,  a  Child  of  strength  and  state! 

Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  simple  glee, 

Nor  yet  for  higher  sympathy. 

To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 

Came,  and  rested  without  fear; 

The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea, 

Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty; 

And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 

Through  Bowscale-Tarn  did  wait  on  him; 

The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 

In  their  immortality; 


100  WORDSWORTH 

And  glancing,  gleaming,  dark  or  bright, 

Moved  to  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 

He  knew  the  rocks  which  Angels  haunt 

Upon  the  mountains  visitant; 

He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing : 

And  into  caves  where  Faeries  sing 

He  hath  entered;  and  been  told 

By  Voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 

The  face  of  thing  that  is  to  be; 

And,  if  that  men  report  him  right, 

His  tongue  could  whisper  words  of  might. 

Now  another  day  is  come, 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom; 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook, 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book; 

Armour  rusting  in  his  halls 

On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls : 

'Quell  the  Scot! '  exclaims  the  Lance; 

'Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France,' 

Is  the  longing  of  the  Shield; 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  field; 

Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be, 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory ! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour, 

When  our  Shepherd  in  his  power, 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored 

Like  a  reappearing  Star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war! 


SCOTT  107 

LIII 

IN   MEMORIAM 
NELSON:  PITT:  FOX 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings; 
The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But  O  my  Country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise; 
The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 
The  hand  that  grasped  the  victor  steel  ? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows; 
But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine, 
Where  glory  weeps  o'er  NELSON'S  shrine; 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom, 
That  shrouds,  O  PITT,  thy  hallowed  tomb ! 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 
O  never  let  those  names  depart ! 
Say  to  your  sons, — Ix>,  here  his  grave, 
Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave; 
To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin, 
Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given. 
Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound, 
Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Rolled,  blazed,  destroyed, — and  was  no  more. 


108  SCOTT 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perished  worth, 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,  Trafalgar; 
Who,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise, 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise; 
Alas !  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave! 
His  worth,  who  in  his  mightiest  hour 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurned  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strained  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gained, 
The  pride  he  would  not  crush  restrained, 
Showed  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause, 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the  free- 
man's laws. 


Hadst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripped  of  power, 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower, 
Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 
When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand; 
By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light, 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright; 
As  some  proud  column,  though  alone, 
Thy  strength  had  propped  the  tottering  throne : 
Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 
The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke, 


SCOTT  109 

The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still, 
The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

O  think,  how  to  his  latest  day, 
When  death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey, 
With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood; 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled, 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 
Till  in  his  fall  with  fateful  sway, 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 
But  still,  upon  the  hallowed  day, 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear, — 
He,  who  preserved  them,  PUT,  lies  here ! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh, 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh; 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  dumb, 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employed,  and  wanted  most; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound, 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine, 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine; 


110  SCOTT 

And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow, — 

They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below: 

And,  if  thou  mourn' st  they  could  not  save 

From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave, 

Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed, 

And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 

Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 

Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings; 

Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 

Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung; 

Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 

The  distant  notes  of  holy  song, 

As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 

'All  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men' ; 

If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 

O,  here  let  prejudice  depart, 

And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 

Record,  that  Fox  a  Briton  died ! 

When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  yoke, 

And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke, 

And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 

Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave, 

Even  then  dishonour's  peace  he  spurned, 

The  sullied  olive-branch  returned, 

Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 

And  nailed  her  colours  to  the  mast ! 

Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 

A  portion  in  this  honoured  grave, 

And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 

Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 


SCOTT  111 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 
Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  PITT  and  Fox  alone. 
Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 
E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 
Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 
And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 
These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these 
The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 
Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone, 
For  ever  tombed  beneath  the  stone, 
Where — taming  thought  to  human  pride! — 
The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 
Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 
'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier; 
O'er  PITT'S  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, — 
'Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 
Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom 
Whom  fate  made  Brothers  in  the  tomb; 
But  search  the  land  of  living  men, 
Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen? ' 


112  SCOTT 

LIV 

LOCHINVAR 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and 

all: 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 
'O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ? ' 

'I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide; 
And  now  am  I  come  with  this  lost  love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar.' 


SCOTT  113 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet :  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,   and  she  looked  up  to 

sigh, 

With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, 
'Now  tread  we  a  measure! '  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  '  'Twere  better  by 

far, 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Loch- 
invar.' 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,   and  the  charger 

stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 
'She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and 

scaur; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,'  quoth  young 

Loch  invar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of   the  Neth- 

erby  clan; 

Forsters,    Kenwicks,   and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and 
they  ran: 


114  SCOTT 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

LV 
FLODDEN 

THE   MARCH 

NEXT  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power 

Encamped  on  Flodden  edge : 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show, 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow, 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  looked:  at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines: 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending; 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending, 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know, 
They  watched  the  motions  of  some  foe 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 


SCOTT  115 

And  heedful  watched  them  as  they  crossed 
The  Till  by  Twisel  bridge. 

High  sight  it  is  and  haughty,  while 

They  dive  into  the  deep  defile; 

Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall, 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree, 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den, 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on  in  ceaseless  march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel !  thy  rocks  deep  echo  rang; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden!  on  thy  airy  brow, 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile? 


116  SCOTT 

What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead? 
What  'vails  the  vain  knight-errant' s  brand? 
O,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed ! 
O  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
Or  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight, 
And  cry  'Saint  Andrew  and  our  right! ' 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannockburn ! 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain; 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still, 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 


THE   ATTACK 

'Bur  see !  look  up — on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent. ' 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  fast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke; 


SCOTT  117 

Nor  martial  shout  nor  minstrel  tone 
Announced  their  march;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. 
Scarce  could  they  hear,  or  see  their  foes, 

Until  at  weapon-point  they  close. 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth 
And  fiends  in  upper  air; 
O  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
I/ong  looked  the  anxious  squires;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast; 
And  first  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 
As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave; 
But  nought  distinct  they  see: 


118  SCOTT 

Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly: 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight: 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntly  and  with  Home. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied. 
'Twas  vain :  but  Fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  fickle  smile  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home !  a  Gordon !  was  the  cry : 


SCOTT  119 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows; 
Advanced,  forced  back,  now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sank  and  rose; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  'mid  the  foes. 


THE   LAST  STAND 

BY  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell, 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  King, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Huntly,  and  where  Home? 
O  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come, 
When  Roland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer, 

On  Roncesvalles  died ! 
Such  blast  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain, 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side 
Afar  the  Royal  Standard  flies, 
And  round  it  toils,  and  bleeds,  and  dies 

Our  Caledonian  pride ! 

But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath, 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 


120  SCOTT 

The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed, 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep 

That  fought  around  their  King. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring; 
The  stubborn  spear-men  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight; 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  King. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands; 
And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain  waves  from  wasted  lands 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know; 
Their  King,  their  Lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a  broken  band 


SCOTT  121 

Disordered  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  town  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale, 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong: 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field, 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear, 

And  broken  was  her  shield ! 

LVI 
THE  CHASE 

THE  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 

Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill, 

And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 

In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade; 

But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 

Had  kindled  on  IJenvoirlich's  head, 

The  deep-mouthed  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 

Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 

And  faint  from  farther  distance  borne 

Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 

As  Chief,  who  hears  his  warder  call, 
'To  arms!  the  foernen  storm  the  wall,' 
The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste 
Sprang  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 


122  SCOTT 

But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh; 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared, 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 

And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack; 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back : 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
A  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  a  hundred  steeds  along, 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rang  out, 
A  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe, 
The  falcon  from  her  cairn  on  high 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye, 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 


SCOTT  123 

And  silence  settled  wide  and  still 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  silvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern  where,  'tis  told, 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old; 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  perforce, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse, 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near; 
So  shrewdly  on  the  mountain-side 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 

The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  grey 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Benvenuc. 
Fresh  vigour  with  the  hope  returned, 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned, 
Held  wcst'vard  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 


124  SCOTT 

'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-more; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith, 
For  twice  that  day  from  shore  to  shore 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far, 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 


Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal, 

That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel; 

For  jaded  now  and  spent  with  toil, 

Embossed  with  foam  and  dark  with  soil, 

While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 

The  labouring  stag  strained  full  in  view. 

Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 

Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came 

And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game; 

For  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch 

Vindictive  toiled  the  bloodhounds  staunch; 

Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 

Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 

Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake, 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake, 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 


SCOTT  125 

The  Hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary, 
And  deemed  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize, 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes; 
For  the  death-wound  and  death-halloo 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew; 
But  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shock, 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen, 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosach's  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There,  while  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild-flowers  on  his  head, 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain, 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 

Close  on  the  hounds  the  hunter  came, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labours  o'er, 
Stretched  his  stiff  limbs,  to  rise  no  more; 
Then  touched  with  pity  and  remorse 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse. 


126  SCOTT 

'I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  Highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed ! 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day, 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  grey ! ' 

Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limped  with  slow  and  crippled  pace 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed, 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream, 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echoes  seemed  an  answering  blast; 
And  on  the  hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day. 


LVII 
THE   OUTLAW 

O,  BRIGNALL  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 


SCOTT  127 

And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily: 

'O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen.' 

'If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed, 

As  blythe  as  Queen  of  May.' 

Yet  sang  she,  'Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  s\vorn 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood.' 
'A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night' 


128  SCOTT 

Yet  sang  she  'Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.' 
'I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

And  O !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May ! 

Maiden !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die ! 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  Greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 

Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen.' 


SCOTT  129 

LVIII 

PIBROCH 

PIBROCH  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 

From  mountains  so  rocky, 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar; 
I^eave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Ix:ave  nets  and  barges : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 


130  SCOTT 


Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 

See  how  they  gather ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 


'WHY  sitt'st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall, 
Thou  aged  carle  so  stern  and  grey? 

Dost  thou  its  former  pride  recall, 
Or  ponder  how  it  passed  away  ?  ' 

'Know'st  thou  not  me?  '  the  Deep  Voice  cried; 

'So  long  enjoyed,  so  often  misused, 
Alternate,  in  thy  fickle  pride, 

Desired,  neglected,  and  accused ! 


SCOTT  131 

Before  my  breath,  like  blazing  flax, 

Man  and  his  marvels  pass  away ! 
And  changing  empires  wane  and  wax, 

Are  founded,  flourish,  and  decay. 

Redeem  mine  hours — the  space  is  brief — 
While  in  my  glass  the  sand-grains  shiver, 

And  measureless  thy  joy  or  grief, 

When  TIME  and  thou  shalt  part  for  ever ! ' 


LX 
THE   RED   HARLAW 

THE  herring  loves  the  merry  moonlight, 

The  mackerel  loves  the  wind, 
But  the  oyster  loves  the  dredging  sang, 

For  they  come  of  a  gentle  kind. 

Now  haud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle, 

And  listen,  great  and  sma', 
And  I  will  sing  of  Glenallan's  Earl 

That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

The  cronach's  cried  on  Bennachie, 

And  doim  the  Don  and  a', 
And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mournfu1  be 

For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw. 

They  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds, 
They  hae  bridled  a  hundred  black, 

With  a  chafron  of  steel  on  each  horse's  head 
And  a  good  knight  upon  his  back. 


132  SCOTT 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile,  but  barely  ten, 
When  Donald  came  branking  down  the  brae 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 

Their  tartans  they  were  waving  wide, 
Their  glaives  were  glancing  clear, 

The  pibrochs  rang  frae  side  to  side, 
Would  deafen  ye  to  hear. 

The  great  Earl  in  his  stirrups  stood, 

That  Highland  host  to  see : 
'Now  here  a  knight  that's  stout  and  good 

May  prove  a  jeopardie: 

What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  squire  so  gay, 

That  rides  beside  my  reyne, 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day, 

And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne  ? 

To  turn  the  rein  were  sin  and  shame, 

To  fight  were  wondrous  peril : 
What  would  ye  do  now,  Roland  Cheyne, 

Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl?  ' 

'Were  I  Glenallan's  Earl  this  tide, 

And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 
The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's  side, 

And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 

If  they  hae  twenty  thousand  blades, 

And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 
Yet  they  hae  but  their  tartan  plaids, 

And  we  are  mail-clad  men. 


SCOTT  133 

My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks  sae  rude, 

As  through  the  moorland  fern, 
Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman  blude 

Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne.' 


LXI 
FAREWELL 

FAREWELL  !  Farewell !  the  voice  you  hear 
Has  left  its  last  soft  tone  with  you; 

Its  next  must  join  the  seaward  cheer, 
And  shout  among  the  shouting  crew. 

The  accents  which  I  scarce  could  form 
Beneath  your  frown's  controlling  check, 

Must  give  the  word,  above  the  storm, 
To  cut  the  mast  and  clear  the  wreck. 

The  timid  eye  I  dared  not  raise, 

The  hand  that  shook  when  pressed  to  thine, 
Must  point  the  guns  upon  the  chase, 

Must  bid  the  deadly  cutlass  shine. 

To  all  I  love,  or  hope,  or  fear, 

Honour  or  own,  a  long  adieu ! 
To  all  that  life  has  soft  and  dear, 

Farewell !  save  memory  of  you ! 


134  SCOTT 

LXII 
BONNY   DUNDEE 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention    'twas   Claver'se  who 

spoke, 
'Ere  the  King's  crown  shall  fall  there  are  crowns  to 

be  broke; 

So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honour  and  me, 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up  your  men; 
Come  open  the  West  Port,  and  let  me  gang  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee ! ' 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 

The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are  beat; 

But  the  Provost,   douce   man,   said,   'Just   e'en   let 

him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil  of  Dundee.' 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow, 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow; 

But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked  couthie 

and  slee, 
Thinking,  luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonny  Dundee ! 

With    sour-featured    Whigs    the    Grassmarket    was 

crammed, 

As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  e'e, 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee. 


SCOTT  135 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway 

was  free, 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle  rock, 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke; 

'Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa  words 

or  three 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.' 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes : 
'Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose! 
Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

'There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland,  and  lands  beyond 

Forth, 
If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's  chiefs  in 

the  North ; 
There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thousand  times 

three, 
Will  cry  hoigh!  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull-hide; 
There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside; 
The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash  free 
At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks, 
Ere  I  owe  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me ! ' 


136  COLERIDGE 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were 

blown, 

The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on, 
Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lee 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up  the  men, 
Come  open  your  gates,  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For  it's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

LXIII 
ROMANCE 

IN  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 

With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 

And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  O !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 
A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 


COLERIDGE  137 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced : 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 


138  LANDOR 

That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware !  Beware ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Coleridge. 

LXIV 
SACRIFICE 

IPHIGENEIA,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Aulis,  and  when  all  beside  the  King 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  and  said, 
'O  father!  I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly  what  the  Goddess  spake.     Old-age 
Obscures  the  senses.     If  my  nurse,  who  knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunderstood 
While  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both  arms 
And  hitting  it  to  make  her  mind  my  words, 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine, 
Might  he  not  also  hear  one  word  amiss, 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olympus? ' 
The  father  placed  his  cheek  upon  her  head, 
And  tears  dropt  down  it,  but  the  king  of  men 
Replied  not.     Then  the  maiden  spake  once  more. 
'O  father!  say'st  thou  nothing?     Hear'st  thou  not 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 


LANDOR  139 

Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 

To  hear  ray  voice  amid  the  voice  of  birds, 

When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 

And  the  down  deadened  it  within  the  nest?  ' 

He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent  still, 

And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears  from  her, 

Although  she  saw  fate  nearer:  then  with  sighs, 

'I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair  before 

Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  have  dimmed 

Her  polisht  altar  with  my  virgin  blood; 

I  thought  to  have  selected  the  white  flowers 

To  please  the  Nymphs,  and  to  have  asked  of  each 

By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret, 

Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed  the  change, 

I  might  at  Hymen's  feet  bend  my  dipt  brow; 

And  (after  those  who  mind  us  girls  the  most) 

Adore  our  own  Athena,  that  she  would 

Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes. 

But,  father !  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 

Your  love,  O  father!  go  ere  I  am  gone.'  .  .  . 

Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her  back, 

Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers, 

And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and  burst. 

He  turned  away;  not  far,  but  silent  still. 

She  now  first  shuddered;  for  in  him,  so  nigh, 

So  long  a  silence  seemed  the  approach  of  death, 

And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her  voice. 

'O  father!  if  the  ships  are  now  detained, 

And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  Clods  above, 

When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be  one  prayer 

The  less  to  them :  and  purer  can  there  be 


140  CAMPBELL 

Any,  or  more  fervent  than  the  daughter's  prayer 

For  her  dear  father's  safety  and  success?  ' 

A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his  resolve. 

An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 

One  word,  stept  slowly  on,  and  took  the  wrist 

Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  looked  up,  and  saw 

The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold  eyes. 

Then  turned  she  where  her  parent  stood,  and  cried, 

'O  father!  grieve  no  more:  the  ships  can  sail.' 

Landor. 

LXV 

SOLDIER  AND   SAILOR 

I  LOVE  contemplating,  apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 

Napoleon's  story! 

'Twas  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him,  I  know  not  how, 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam ; 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over 

With  envy;  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 


CAMPBELL  141 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning — dreaming — doating, 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 
The  live-long  day  laborious;  lurking 

Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us!  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description,  wretched :  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder; 

Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled, 
No  sail — no  rudder. 

From  neighb'ring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows; 

And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering; 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 

Napoleon's  hearing. 


142  CAMPBELL 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger; 

And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger : — 

'Rash  man,  that  wouldst  yon  Channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned; 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned. ' 

'I  have  no  sweetheart,'  said  the  lad; 

'But — absent  long  from  one  another — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother.' 

'And  so  thou  shalt, '  Napoleon  said, 
'Ye've  both  my  favour  fairly  won; 

A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son. ' 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 

He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte". 


CAMPBELL  143 

LXVI 

'YE  MARINERS' 

YE  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 


144  CAMPBELL 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 
When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


LXVII 
THE  BATTLE  OF  THE   BALTIC 

OF  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine; 


CAMPBELL  145 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

'Hearts  of  oak! '  our  captains  cried;  when  each 

gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane, 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: — 

Then  cease — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Now  joy,  Old  Kngland,  raise 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  .shines  in  light; 


146  ELLIOTT 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Campbell. 


LXVIH 

BATTLE   SONG 

DAY,  like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark; 

What  then?     'Tisday! 
We  sleep  no  more;  the  cock  crows — hark! 

To  arms !  away ! 
They  come !  they  come !  the  knell  is  rung 

Of  us  or  them; 
Wide  o'er  their  march  the  pomp  is  flung 

Of  gold  and  gem. 
What  collared  hound  of  lav/less  sway, 

To  famine  dear, 
What  pensioned  slave  of  Attila, 

Leads  in  the  rear? 
Come  they  from  Scythian  wilds  afar 

Our  blood  to  spill? 
Wear  they  the  livery  of  the  Czar? 

They  do  his  will. 
Nor  tasselled  silk,  nor  epaulette, 

Nor  plume,  nor  torse — 
No  splendour  gilds,  all  sternly  met, 

Our  foot  and  horse. 


CUNNINGHAM  147 

But,  dark  and  still,  we  inly  glow, 

Condensed  in  ire ! 
Strike,  tawdry  slaves,  and  ye  shall  know 

Our  gloom  is  fire. 
In  vain  your  pomp,  ye  evil  powers, 

Insults  the  land; 
Wrongs,  vengeance,  and  the  cause  are  ours, 

And  God's  right  hand! 
Madmen !  they  trample  into  snakes 

The  wormy  clod ! 
Like  fire,  beneath  their  feet  awakes 

The  sword  of  God ! 
Behind,  before,  above,  below, 

They  rouse  the  brave; 
Where'er  they  go,  they  make  a  foe, 

Or  find  a  grave. 

Elliott. 

LXDC 

LOYALTY 

HAME,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 

O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

When  the  flower  is  i'  the  bud  and  the  leaf  is  on  the  tree, 

The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  countrie; 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 

O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

The  green  leaf  o'  loyaltie's  begun  for  to  fa1, 
The  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering  an'  a'; 
But  I'll  water 't  wi'  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannic, 
An'  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countrie. 


148  CUNNINGHAM 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

The  great  are  now  gane,  a'  wha  ventured  to  save ; 
The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o'  their  grave 
But  the  sun  thro'  the  mirk  blinks  blythe  in  my  e'e, 
'I'll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  yere  ain  countrie.' 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 


LXX 
A  SEA-SONG 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


PROCTER  149 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Cunningham. 

LXXI 
A  SONG  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  Sea !  the  Sea !  the  open  Sea ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  'round; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds;  it  mocks  the  skies; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  Sea!     I'm  on  the  Sea! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter?     /shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love  (O !  how  I  love)  to  ride 
On  the  fierce  foaming  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  south-west  blasts  do  blow. 


150  BYRON 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  Sea  more  and  more, 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is  to  me; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  Sea ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  Ocean-child ! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought,  nor  sighed  for  change; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  come  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wide  unbounded  Sea ! 

Procter. 

Lxxn 
SENNACHERIB 

THE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen: 


BYRON  151 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew 
still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 

Lxxm 
THE  STORMING  OF  CORINTH 

THE  SIGNAL 

THE  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 
As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 
Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 
The  Morning  from  her  mantle  grey, 
And  the  noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 


152  BYRON 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 
And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 
And  the  clash,   and  the  shout,    'They  come!   they 

come ! ' 
The  horsetails  are  plucked  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the 

word. 

Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit: 
The  spears  are  uplifted;  the  matches  are  lit; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 
Arid  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before : 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  janizar; 
Alp  at  their  head;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar; 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post; 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on; 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 


BYRON  153 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet — Alia  Hu ! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 

'There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale ; 

And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail  ? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

His  heart's  dearest  wish;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have! ' 

Thus  uttered  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire : — 

Silence — hark  to  the  signal — fire ! 

THE   ASSAULT 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash, 

From  the  cliffs  invading  dash 

Huge  fragments,  sapped  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche's  snow 

On  the  Alpine  vales  below; 

Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 

By  the  long  and  oft  renewed 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 

Heaped  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute: 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 

For  quarter  or  for  victory, 


154  BYRON 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes; 

If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 

Which  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 

With  an  echo  dread  and  new : 

You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  day, 

O'er  Salamis  and  Megara; 

(We  have  heard  the  hearers  say,) 

Even  unto  Piraeus'  bay. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt, 

Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt; 

But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun, 

And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 

Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 

From  within  the  plundered  dome : 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet 

That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street; 

But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 

Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 

Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten, 

Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 

With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 

Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white, 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 
So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 


BYRON  155 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 

In  a  semicircle  lay; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurked  beneath  his  corselet  bright; 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before: 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb, 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him, 

And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay, 

Outnumbered  his  thin  hairs  of  silver  grey. 

From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept; 

Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 

Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipped 

His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore, 

Ere  his  years  could  count  a  score. 

Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire 

Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire : 

For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago, 

His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe; 

And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait 

His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate, 

His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 

More  than  a  human  hecatomb. 

If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

Patroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 

Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 

Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide. 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on  the  shore; 


156  BYRON 

What  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 

Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell? 
Not  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bone  in  their  graves; 
But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortally  saves. 

THE   MAGAZINE 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 
Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar-stone: 
Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 
Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 
With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  love; 
And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 
To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 
When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 
Her,  and  the  boy-God  on  her  knee, 
Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 
To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 
Still  she  smiled;  even  now  she  smiles, 
Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles : 
Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye, 
And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 
Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby; 
And  still  he  stood,  while  with  steel  and  flame 
Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 
Contained  the  dead  of  ages  gone; 
Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 
But  now  illegible  with  gore; 
The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 
The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 


BYRON  157 

Were  smeared,  and  slippery,  stained,  and  strown 

With  broken  swords  and  helms  o'erthrown: 

There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 

Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffined  row; 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state, 

By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate; 

But  War  had  entered  their  dark  caves, 

And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 

Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 

In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead : 

Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 

The  Christians'  chief est  magazine; 
To  these  a  late  formed  train  now  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stern  resource 
Against  the  foe's  o'envhelming  force. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 
To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain: 
For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 
The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 
With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 
And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head, 
And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 
And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich, 
And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 
The  silver  vessels  saints  had  blessed. 
To  the  high  altar  on  they  go; 
(),  but  it  made  a  glorious  show ! 
On  its  table  still  behold 
The  cup  of  consecrated  gold; 
Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 
Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes: 


158  BYRON 

That  morn  it  held  the  holy  wine, 

Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine, 

Which  his  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day, 

To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  joined  in  the  fray. 

Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 

Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast; 

A  spoil — the  richest,  and  the  last. 

So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretched 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reached, 

When  old  Minotti's  hand 
Touched  with  the  torch  the  train — 

'Tis  fired ! 
Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 

The  turbaned  victors,  the  Christian  band, 
All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurl'd  on  high  with  the  shivered  fane, 

In  one  wild  roar  expired ! 
The  shattered  town — the  walls  thrown  down — 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  passed — 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven 

By  that  tremendous  blast — 
Proclaimed  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore : 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below: 


BYRON  159 

Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 

Scorched  and  shrivelled  to  a  span, 

When  he  fell  to  earth  again 

Like  a  cinder  strewed  the  plain : 

Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain; 

Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprinkles 

With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles; 

Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but  far  away 

Scattered  o'er  the  isthmus  lay; 

Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they? 

Let  their  mother  say  and  say ! 

When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 

And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 

On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child, 

Little  deemed  she  such  a  day 

Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away. 

Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 

Could  discern  their  offspring  more; 

That  one  moment  left  no  trace 

More  of  human  form  or  face 

Save  a  scattered  scalp  or  bone : 

And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 

Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 

Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 

All  blackened  there  and  reeking  lay. 

All  the  living  things  that  heard 

That  deadly  earth-shock  disappeared: 

The  wild  birds  flew;  the  wild  dogs  fled, 

And  howling  left  the  unburied  dead; 

The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke; 

The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 


160  BYRON 

The  nearer  steed  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein; 
The  bull-frog's  note  from  out  the  marsh 
Deep-mouthed  arose,  and  doubly  harsh; 
The  wolves  yelled  on  the  caverned  hill 
Where  echo  rolled  in  thunder  still; 
The  jackals'  troop  in  gathered  cry 
Bayed  from  afar  complainingly, 
With  a  mixed  and  mournful  sound, 
Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound : 
With  sudden  wing  and  ruffled  breast 
The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest, 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun, 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seemed  so  dun; 
Their  smoke  assailed  his  startled  beak, 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won ! 

LXXIV 
ALHAMA 

THE  Moorish  King  rides  up  and  down, 
Through  Granada's  royal  town; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Albania's  city  fell: 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


BYRON  161 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gained, 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain — 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! — 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware, 
That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 
'Wherefore  call  on  us,  O  King? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering?  ' 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

'Friends!  ye  have,  alas!  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow; 


162  BYRON 

That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold.' 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 
'Good  King!  thou  art  justly  served, 
Good  King !  this  thou  hast  deserved. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  Chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  for  this,  O  King !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement : 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone. ' 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes, 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


BYRON  103 

'There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings : ' 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  King,  and  doomed  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Moor  Alfaqui !  Moor  Alfaqui ! 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 
The  King  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama' s  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra's  loftiest  stone; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

'Cavalier,  and  man  of  worth! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ! 
Let  the  Moorish  Monarch  know, 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs, 
And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys; 
And  if  the  King  his  land  hath  lost, 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives! 


164  BYRON 

One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth,  or  fame. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour, 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower; 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay, 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said, 
They  severed  from  the  trunk  his  head; 
And  to  the  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'Twas  carried,  as  the  King  decreed. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep; 
Granada's  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  from  the  windows  o'er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls; 
The  King  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

LXXV 
FRIENDSHIP 

MY  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 

But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee  ! 


BYRON  165 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 

And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 
And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 

Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be,  'Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  1 ' 


LXXVI 

THE  RACE  WITH   DEATH 

O  VENICE  !  Venice !  when  thy  marble  walls 
Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 

A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee, 
What  should  thy  sons  do? — anything  but  weep: 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
In  contrast  with  their  fathers — as  the  slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 


1G6  BYRON 

Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam 

That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home, 

Are  they  to  those  that  were;  and  thus  they  creep, 

Crouching    and    crab-like,    through    their    sapping 

streets. 

O  agony !  that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest !     Thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  turned  to  dust  and  tears, 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets, 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets; 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears, 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum 
With  dull  and  daily  dissonance  repeats 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song, 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
Of  gondolas  and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overbeating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations,  battling  with  the  blood. 
But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors, 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay, 
When  Vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoftened  terrors, 
And  Mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay; 
And  Hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay, 
The  sick  man's  lightening  half  an  hour  ere  death, 
When  Faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  Pain, 
And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 


BYRON  167 

Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  Death  is  winning, 

Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away; 

Yet  so  relieving  the  o'er-tortured  clay, 

To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath, 

And  freedom  the  mere  numbness  of  his  chain; 

And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 

He  feels  his  spirits  soaring — albeit  weak, 

And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek: 

And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps, 

That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps; 

And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him,  and  the  dizzy 

Chamber  swims  round  and  round,  and  shadows  busy, 

At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam, 

Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream, 

And  all  is  ice  and  blackness,  and  the  earth 

That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 

LXXV'II 

THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE 

THE  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phcebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all  except  their  sun  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 


168  BYRON 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  'Islands  of  the  Blest.' 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And,  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships  by  thousands  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day, 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now, 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush,  for  Greece  a  tear ! 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush?     Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 


BYRON  169 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah !  no :  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  'Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come ! ' 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain:  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal  1 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The -nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave; 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates : 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiadcs! 

Oh !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 


170  BYRON 

Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells; 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells : 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing  save  the  waves  and  I 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


BYRON  171 


LXXVIH 
HAIL  AND   FAREWELL 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move : 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus,  and  'tis  not  here, 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan  borne  upon  his  shield 
Was  not  more  free. 


172  WOLFE 

Awake !  (not  Greece — she  is  awake !) 

Awake,  my  spirit !     Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

Unworthy  manhood !  unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live? 

The  lad  of  honourable  death 
Is  here :  up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 

And  take  thy  rest. 

Byron, 

LXXIX 

AFTER   CORUNNA 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


WOLFE  173 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

How  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 

head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


174  MARRYAT 

LXXX 
THE   OLD   NAVY 

THE   captain  stood  on   the  carronade:    'First  lieu- 
tenant, '  says  he, 
'Send  all  my  merry  men  aft  here,  for  they  must  list 

to  me; 
I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  my  sons — because  I'm 

bred  to  the  sea; 

That  ship  there  is  a  Frenchman,  who  means  to  fight 
with  we. 

And  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  long  as 

I've  been  to  sea, 

I've    fought    'gainst    every    odds — but    I've 
gained  the  victory ! 

That  ship  there  is  a  Frenchman,   and  if  we  don't 

take  she, 

'Tis  a  thousand  bullets  to  one,  that  she  will  capture  we; 
I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  my  boys;  so  each  man 

to  his  gun; 

If  she's  not  mine  in  half  an  hour,  I'll  flog  each 
mother's  son. 

For  odds  bobs,   hammer  and  tongs,  long  as 

I've  been  to  sea, 

I've    fought    'gainst    every    odds — and    I've 
gained  the  victory ! ' 

We  fought  for  twenty  minutes,  when  the  French- 
man had  enough; 

'I  little  thought,'  said  he,  'that  your  men  were  of 
such  stuff ' ; 


HEMANS  175 

Our  captain  took  the  Frenchman's  sword,  a  low  bow 

made  to  he; 

'I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  monsieur,  but  polite 
I  wish  to  be. 

And  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  long  as 

I've  been  to  sea, 

I've   fought    'gainst    every    odds — and    I've 
gained  the  victory ! ' 

Our  captain  sent  for  all  of  us :  *  My  merry  men, '  said 

he, 
'I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  my  lads,   but  yet  I 

thankful  be : 
You've  done  your  duty  handsomely,  each  man  stood 

to  his  gun; 

If  you  hadn't,  you  villains,  as  sure  as  day,  I'd  have 
flogged  each  mother's  son. 

For  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  as  long  as 

I'm  at  sea, 
I'll  fight  'gainst  every  odds — and   I'll   gain 

the  victory ! ' 

Afarryat. 

LXXXI 

CASABIANCA 

THE  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 

Whence  all  but  he  had  fled; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 


176  HEMANS 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm : 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on — he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud :  '  Say,  father !  say 

If  yet  my  task  is  done ! ' 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

'Speak,  father! '  once  again  he  cried, 

'  If  I  may  yet  be  gone ! ' 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair; 
He  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair, 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

'My  father!  must  I  stay?  ' 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendour  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 


HEMANS  177 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound — 

The  boy — O !  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea: 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part ! 
But  the  noblest  thing  which  perished  there 

Was  that  young  faithful  heart. 


LXXXH 
THE  PILGRIM   FATHERS 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 
They,  the  true-hearted,  came; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 
In  silence  and  in  fear;  — 


178  HEMANS 

They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 
With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free ! 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared — 

This  was  their  welcome  home ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band; 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod. 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found- 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 


KEATS  :    MACAULAY  179 

LXXXIII 

TO  THE  ADVENTUROUS 

MUCH  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

Keats. 

LXXXIV 
HORATIUS 

THE   TRYSTING 

LARS  PORSENA  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

To  summon  his  array. 


180  MACAULAY 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place, 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine; 

From  lordly  Volaterra?, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old; 
From  sea-girt  Populonia 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain- tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky; 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisa?, 
Queen  of  the  western  waves, 

Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 
Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves; 


MACAULAY  181 

From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 
Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers; 

From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 
Her  diadem  of  towers. 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  Auser's  rill; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill; 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear; 
Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill; 
Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer; 
Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium 

This  year  old  men  shall  reap; 
This  year  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna 

This  year  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 


182  MACAULAY 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand : 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given : 
'Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena; 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome, 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome.' 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day ! 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 
Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 

And  many  a  banished  Roman, 
And  many  a  stout  ally; 


MACAULAY  183 

And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

THE   TROUBLE   IN   ROME 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 
And  troops  of  sun-burned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  waggons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 


184  MACAULAY 

Now  from  the  rock  Tarpeian 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands ; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-Gate; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 


MACAULAY  185 

Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly : 

'The  bridge  must  straight  go  down; 

For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 
Nought  else  can  save  the  town.' 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear: 
'To  arms!  to  arms!  Sir  Consul: 

Lars  Porsena  is  here.' 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Above  that  glimmering  line 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine; 


186  MACAULAY 

But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 
Was  highest  of  them  all, 

The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 
The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 


And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 

Each  warlike  Lucumo. 
There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen; 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard 

Overlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sate  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 


MACAULAY  137 

On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 
But  spat  .towards  him,  and  hissed; 

No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 
And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
'Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  ' 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  gate : 
'To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late; 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame? 


188  MACAULAY 

Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ? ' 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius, 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
'Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.' 
And  out  spake  strong  Heminius, 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he : 
'I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.' 

'Horatius,'  quoth  the  Consul, 

'As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be.' 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great : 


MACAULAY  189 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe, 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold : 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

THE   KEEPING   OF   THE   BRIDGE 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe : 
And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  t  mm  pets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 


190  MACAULAY 

As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 

Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 
Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 


The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose : 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array; 

To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way; 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  grey  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath: 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth : 


MACAULAY  191 

At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust, 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns: 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low : 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
'Lie  there,'  he  cried,  'fell  pirate! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail.' 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  amongst  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamour 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 


192  MACAULAY 

Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But  hark !  the  cry  is  Astur : 

And  lo!  the  ranks  divide; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 
Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  'The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stands  savagely  at  bay : 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  ' 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh; 

It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh  : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 


MACAULAY  193 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space; 
Then,  like  a  wild  cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped 
The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak : 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
'And  see,'  he  cried,  'the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer?  ' 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran, 
Mingled  of  wrath  and  shame  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 


194  MACAULAY 

There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three : 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 

Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack; 
But  those  behind  cried  'Forward! ' 

And  those  before  cried  'Back! ' 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 

To  and  fro  the  standards  reel; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 
Strode  out  before  the  crowd; 

Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 
And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 


MACAULAY  195 

'Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome.' 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread: 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
'Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius!' 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
'Back,  Lartius!  back,  Herminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall ! ' 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius; 

Herminius  darted  back : 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But,  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 


106  MACAULAY 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream : 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane; 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free; 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

FATHER   TIBER 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
'Down  with  him! '  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
'Now  yield  thee,'  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

'Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace.' 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 
Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 


MACAULAY  197 

Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

*O  Tiber!  father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day ! ' 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain: 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 


198  MACAULAY 

And  heavy  with  his  armour, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows: 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 
But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place : 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

'Curse  on  him! '  quoth  false  Sextus; 

'Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town ! ' 
'Heaven  help  him! '  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

'And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before.' 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 


MACAULAY  109 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee: 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 

And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 
Is  heard  amidst  the  snow; 


200  MACAULAY 

When  round  the  lonely  cottage 
Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 

And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 
Roar  louder  yet  within; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows; 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


LXXXV 
THE  ARMADA 

ATTEND,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's 

praise; 
I   tell  of  the  thrice  famous  deeds  she  wrought  in 

ancient  days, 


MACAULAY  201 

When   that  great   fleet   invincible  against  her  bore 

in  vain 
The  richest  spoils  of  Mexico,   the  stoutest  hearts  of 

Spain. 

It  was  about  the  lovely  close  of  a  warm  summer  day, 
There    came    a  gallant   merchant-ship   full   sail   to 

Plymouth  Bay; 
Her  crew  hath  seen  Castile's  black  fleet,   beyond 

Aurigny's  isle, 
At  earliest  twilight,  on  the  waves  lie  heaving  many 

a  mile. 
At  sunrise  she  escaped  their  van,  by  God's  especial 

grace; 
And  the  tall  Pinta,  till  the  noon,  had  held  her  close 

in  chase. 
Forthwith  a  guard  at  every  gun  was  placed  along 

the  wall; 
The  beacon  blazed  upon  the  roof  of  Edgecumbe's 

lofty  hall; 
Many  a  light  fishing-bark  put  out  to  pry  along  the 

coast, 
And  with  loose  rein  and  bloody  spur  rode   inland 

many  a  post. 
With  his  white  hair  unbonneted,  the  stout  old  sheriff 

comes; 
Behind    him    march    the   halberdiers;    before    him 

sound  the  drums; 
His  yeomen  round  the  market  cross  make  clear  an 

ample  space; 
For  there  behoves  him  to  set  up   the    standard   of 

Her  Grace. 


202  MACAULAY 

And  haughtily  the  trumpets   peal,  and   gaily  dance 

the  bells, 
As  slow  upon  the  labouring  wind  the  royal   blazon 

swells. 

Look  how  the  Lion  of  the  sea  lifts  up  his  ancient  crown, 
And  underneath  his  deadly  paw  treads  the  gay  lilies 

down ! 
So   stalked   he   when   he  turned   to   flight,   on  that 

famed  Picard  field, 
Bohemia's   plume,   and   Genoa's  bow,  and  Caesar's 

eagle  shield. 
So  glared  he  when  at  Agincourt  in  wrath  he  turned 

to  bay, 
And  crushed  and  torn  beneath  his  claws  the  princely 

hunters  lay. 
Ho !  strike  the  flagstaff  deep,  Sir  Knight :  ho  !  scatter 

flowers,  fair  maids : 
Ho!  gunners,  fire  a  loud  salute:  ho!  gallants,  draw 

your  blades : 
Thou  sun,   shine  on  her  joyously:  ye  breezes,  waft 

her  wide; 
Our  glorious  SEMPER  EADEM,  the  banner  of  our  pride. 

The  freshening  breeze  of  eve  unfurled  that  banner's 

massy  fold; 
The  parting  gleam  of  sunshine  kissed  that  haughty 

scroll  of  gold; 
Night   sank   upon    the    dusky    beach    and    on    the 

purple  sea, 
Such  night   in   England   ne'er  had  been,   nor  e'er 

again  shall  be. 


MACAULAY  203 

From  Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds,  from  Lynn  to 

Milford  Bay, 

That  time  of  slumber  was  as  bright  and  busy  as  the  day; 
For  swift  to  east  and  swift  to  west  the  ghastly  war- 
flame  spread, 
High  on  St.  Michael's  Mount  it  shone:  it  shone  on 

Beachy  Head. 
Far  on   the  deep  the    Spaniard    saw,   along    each 

southern  shire, 
Cape  beyond  cape,  in  endless  range,  those  twinkling 

points  of  fire. 
The  fisher  left  his  skiff  to  rock  on  Tamar's  glittering 

waves : 
The  rugged  miners  poured  to  war  from  Mendip's 

sunless  caves ! 
O'er  Longleat's  towers,  o'er  Cranbourne's  oaks,  the 

fiery  herald  flew: 
He  roused  the  shepherds  of  Stonehenge,  the  rangers 

of  Beaulieu. 
Right  sharp  and  quick  the  bells  all  night  rang  out 

from  Bristol  town, 
And  ere  the  day  three  hundred  horse  had  met  on 

Clifton  down; 
The   sentinel  on  Whitehall  gate  looked  forth   into 

the  night, 
And  saw  o'erhanging  Richmond  Hill  the  streak  of 

blood'- red  light: 
Then  bugle's  note  and  cannon's  roar  the  death-like 

silence  broke, 
And  with  one  start,  and  with  one  cry,  the  royal  city 

woke. 


204  MACAULAY 

At  once  on  all  her  stately  gates  arose  the  answering 

fires; 
At  once  the  wild  alarum  clashed  from  all  her  reeling 

spires; 
From  all  the  batteries  of  the  Tower  pealed  loud  the 

voice  of  fear; 
And  all  the  thousand  masts  of  Thames  sent  back  a 

louder  cheer; 
And  from  the  furthest  wards  was  heard  the  rush  of 

hurrying  feet, 
And  the  broad  streams   of   pikes  and  flags  rushed 

down  each  roaring  street ; 
And  broader  still  became  the  blaze,  and  louder  still 

the  din, 
As   fast   from    every  village   round   the   horse   came 

spurring  in. 
And    eastward    straight    from   wild    Blackheath   the 

warlike  errand  went, 
And   roused   in   many    an  ancient   hall    the    gallant 

squires  of  Kent. 
Southward   from   Surrey's    pleasant    hills   flew   those 

bright  couriers  forth ; 
High    on    bleak    Hampstead's    swarthy   moor    they 

started  for  the  north  ; 
And   on,    and   on,    without   a   pause,    untired    they 

bounded  still : 
All  night   from   tower   to   tower   they   sprang;  they 

sprang  from  hill  to  hill : 
Till  the  proud  Peak  unfurled  the  flag  o'er  Darwin's 

rocky  dales, 
Till  like  volcanoes  flared  to  heaven  the  stormy  hills 

of  Wales, 


MACAULAY  205 

Till  twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  blaze  on  Malvern's 

lonely  height, 
Till  streamed  in  crimson  on  the  wind  the  Wrekin's 

crest  of  light, 
Till  broad  and  fierce  the  star  came  forth  on  Ely's 

stately  fane, 
And  tower  and   hamlet   rose   in   arms  o'er  all   the 

boundless  plain; 
Till   Belvoir's   lordly   terraces    the   sign  to   Lincoln 

sent, 
And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on  o'er  the  wide  vale 

of  Trent; 
Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burned   on   Gaunt' s 

embattled  pile, 
And  the  red  glare  on  Skiddaw  roused  the  burghers 

of  Carlisle. 

LXXXVI 
THE   LAST  BUCCANEER 

THE  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were  swelling, 

The  sky  was  black  and  drear, 

When  the  crew  with  eyes  of  flame  brought  the  ship 
without  a  name 

Alongside  the  last  Buccaneer. 

'Whence  flies  your  sloop  full  sail  before  so  fierce  a 
gale, 

When  all  others  drive  bare  on  the  seas? 
Say,  come  ye  from  the  shore  of  the  holy  Salvador, 

Or  the  gulf  of  the  rich  Caribbees? ' 


206  MACAULAY 

'From  a  shore  no  search  hath  found,  from  a  gulf  no 

line  can  sound, 

Without  rudder  or  needle  we  steer; 
Above,  below,  our  bark  dies  the  sea-fowl   and   the 

shark, 
As  we  fly  by  the  last  Buccaneer. 

To-night    there    shall   be    heard    on    the   rocks    of 

Cape  de  Verde 

A  loud  crash  and  a  louder  roar; 
And  to-morrow  shall  the  deep  with  a  heavy  moan- 
ing sweep 
The  corpses  and  wreck  to  the  shore.' 

The  stately  ship  of  Clyde  securely  now  may  ride 

In  the  breath  of  the  citron  shades; 
And  Severn's  towering  mast  securely  now  hies  fast, 

Through  the  seas  of  the  balmy  Trades. 

From  St.  Jago's  wealthy  port,  from  Havannah's  royal 
fort, 

The  seaman  goes  forth  without  fear; 
For  since  that  stormy  night  not  a  mortal  hath  had  sight 

Of  the  flag  of  the  last  Buccaneer. 

LXXXVII 
A  JACOBITE'S  EPITAPH 

To  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain 
Courage  and  faith;  vain  faith,  and  courage  vain. 
For  him,  I  threw  lands,  honours,  wealth,  away, 
And  one  dear  hope,  that  was  more  prized  than  they. 


HAWKER  207 

For  him  I  languished  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Grey-haired  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's  prime; 
Heard  on  Lavernia  Scargill's  whispering  trees, 
And  pined  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fevered  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting-place  I  asked — an  early  grave. 
Oh  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless  stone, 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once  mine  own, 
By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  speak  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.     A  broken  heart  lies  here. 

Macaulay. 

LXXXVIII 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN   MEN 

A  GOOD  sword  and  a  trusty  hand ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true ! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die? 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why ! 

Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he : 
'If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'll  set  Trelawny  free! 


208  LONGFELLOW 

We'll  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay, 
With  "one  and  all,"  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay? 

And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth !  come  forth !  ye  cowards  all, 

Here's  men  as  good  as  you. 

Trelawny  he's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawny  he  may  die; 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold 

Will  know  the  reason  why ! ' 

Hawker. 

LXXXIX 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE   SHIP 

THE   MODEL 

'BuiLD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master! 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! ' 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 


LONGFELLOW  2l 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 
He  answered,  'Ere  long  we  will  launch 
A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  staunch, 
As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea ! ' 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 

Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 

Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 

What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature; 

That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 

The  greater  labour  might  be  brought 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  laboured,  his  mind  ran  o'er 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 

And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all, 

Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 

Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a  smile,  'Our  ship,  I  wis, 

Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this ! ' 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed; 
Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 
A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft; 


210  LONGFELLOW 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast, 
Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 
Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

THE   BUILDERS 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 

With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke ! 

Ah !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion ! 

There's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 


LONGFELLOW  211 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 
And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 
As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 
Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 
That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 
Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 
Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 
A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 
Listened  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 
Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again; — 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's  hand, 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

'Thus,'  said  he,  'will  we  build  this  ship! 
Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 
And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 
Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care; 
Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware; 


212  LONGFELLOW 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 
To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 
Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 
Here  together  shall  combine. 
A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 
And  the  UNION  be  her  name ! 
For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 
Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee ! ' 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride, 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach; 

But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea ! 

Ah  !  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command! 
It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  exceedeth  all  the  rest ! 


LONGFELLOW  213 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 

With  vigourous  arms  on  every  side; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 

The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 

Who  sees  his  labour  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 

The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 

Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 

Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again; 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind; 

And  the  m.igic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms  and  shining  sands, 


21 1  LONGFELLOW 

Where  the  tumbling  surf, 
O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 
Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 
As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind! 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream; 

And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 

What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 

That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 

Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast! 

IN   THE   SHIP-YARD 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 
With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 
Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 
Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 
A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view ! 
And  round  the  bows  and  along  the  side 
The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 
Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 
Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 
Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 
Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk ! 


LONGFELLOW  215 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamours 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men : — 

'Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 
Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! ' 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of  the  whole; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master's  daughter! 


216  LONGFELLOW 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night 

'Twill  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light, 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel  in  its  flight 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright. 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 

Is  swung  into  its  place; 

Shrouds  and  stays 

Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 

Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell — those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines! 

'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 

The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 

Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 

To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair 

And,  naked  and  bare, 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 

Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  for  evermore 

Of  their  native  forest  they  should  not  see  again. 


LONGFELLOW  217 

And  everywhere 
The  slender,  graceful  spars 
Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 
And  at  the  mast  head, 
White,  blue,  and  red, 
A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 
Ah !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 
In  foreign  harbours  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 
'Twill  be  as  a  friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 
Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  end- 
less. 


THE   TWO    BRIDALS 

All  is  finished !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendours  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest; 

And  far  and  wide, 


218  LONGFELLOW 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay 

In  honour  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  grey,  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head, 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 

Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 


LONGFELLOW  219 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart, 

Of  the  sailor's  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents  that  flow 

With  such  resistless  undertow, 

And  lift  and  drift  with  terrible  force, 

The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 

Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he : 

'Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 


220  LONGFELLOW 

Ah !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 
Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 
Ever  level,  and  ever  true 
To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 
We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 
The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 
The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 
Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear ! ' 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see !  she  stirs ! 

She  starts — she  moves — she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, — 

'  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  grey, 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! ' 

How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair  • 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 


LONGFELLOW  221 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  ! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  ship  of  State  ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
Tis  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 
Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 


222  LONGFELLOW 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee  ! 


LONGFELLOW  223 

xc 
THE   DISCOVERER  OF   THE    NORTH    CAPE 

OTHERE,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  grey 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 

His  cheek  had  the  colour  of  oak; 

With  a  kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  on  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  king  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  knees, 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  seas. 

'So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me; 
To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains; 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 


224  LONGFELLOW 

So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

From  the  harbour  of  Skeringes-hale, 
If  you  only  sailed  by  day 
With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a  month  would  you  sail. 

I  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside; 
I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 
Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 
And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 
But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 

For  the  old  seafaring  men 

Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas; — 

Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 
And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

And  the  undiscovered  deep; — 

I  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 
For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert, 

How  far  I  fain  would  know; 
So  at  last  I  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 
As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 

To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 
But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 
For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  three  days  more. 


LONGFELLOW  225 

The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 
And  southward  through  the  haze 
I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 

Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 

The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 

The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 
And  the  sea-fog,  like  a  ghost, 
Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 

But  onward  still  I  sailed. 

Four  days  I  steered  to  eastward, 

Four  days  without  a  night : 
Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  O  King, 

With  red  and  lurid  light.' 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while; 
And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look, 

And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 
Till  the  King  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 

And  wrote  down  every  word. 


226  LONGFELLOW 

'And  now  the  land,'  said  Othere, 
'Bent  southward  suddenly, 

And  I  followed  the  curving  shore, 

And  ever  southward  bore 
Into  a  nameless  sea. 

And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 
The  narwhale,  and  the  seal; 

Ha !  'twas  a  noble  game ! 

And  like  the  lightning's  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norsemen  of  Helgoland; 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand.' 

Here  Alfred,  the  Truth-Teller, 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 
Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 

Then  smiled  till  his  shining  teeth 

Gleamed  white  from  underneath 

His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  tnith, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 

'Behold  this  walrus-tooth! ' 


LONGFELLOW  227 

xci 
THE   CUMBERLAND 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop  of  war; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

'Strike  your  flag! '  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
'Never! '  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 


228  LONGFELLOW 

'It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield! ' 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wreck, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas, 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream ! 
Ho!  brave  land!  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag  that  is  rent  in  twain 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 

xcn 
A   DUTCH   PICTURE 

SIMON  DANZ  has  come  home  again, 

From  cruising  about  with  his  buccaneers; 
He  has  singed  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 


LONGFELLOW  229 

In  his  house  by  the  Maes,  with  its  roof  of  tiles 

And  weathercocks  flying  aloft  in  air, 
There  are  silver  tankards  of  antique  styles, 
Plunder  of  convent  and  castle,  and  piles 
Of  carpets  rich  and  rare. 

In  his  tulip-garden  there  by  the  town, 

Overlooking  the  sluggish  stream, 
With  his  Moorish  cap  and  dressing-gown, 
The  old  sea-captain,  hale  and  brown, 

Walks  in  a  waking  dream. 

A  smile  in  his  grey  mustachio  lurks 

Whenever  he  thinks  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  the  listed  tulips  look  like  Turks, 

And  the  silent  gardener  as  he  works 
Is  changed  to  the  Dean  of  Jaen. 

The  windmills  on  the  outermost 

Verge  of  the  landscape  in  the  haze, 
To  him  are  towers  on  the  Spanish  coast 
With  whiskered  sentinels  at  their  post, 
Though  this  is  the  river  Maes. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 
And  old  seafaring  men  come  in, 
Goat-bearded,  grey,  and  with  double  chin, 
And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 

Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night; 
Figures  in  colour  and  design 
Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 
Half  darkness  and  half  light. 


230  WHITTIER 

And  they  talk  of  their  ventures  lost  or  won, 
And  their  talk  is  ever  and  ever  the  same, 
While  they  drink  the  red  wine  of  Tarragon, 
From  the  cellars  of  some  Spanish  Don 
Or  convent  set  on  flame. 

Restless  at  times,  with  heavy  strides 

He  paces  his  parlour  to  and  fro; 
He  is  like  a  ship  that  at  anchor  rides, 
And  swings  with  the  rising  and  falling  tides, 
And  tugs  at  her  anchor-tow. 

Voices  mysterious  far  and  near, 

Sound  of  the  wind  and  sound  of  the  sea, 
Are  calling  and  whispering  in  his  ear, 
'Simon  Danz!     Why  stayest  thou  here? 
Come  forth  and  follow  me ! ' 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 

For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers, 
To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 

And  sell  him  in  Algiers. 

Longfellow, 


UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


WHITTIER  231 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

'Halt! ' — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
'Fire! ' — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


232  TENNYSON 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

'Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  grey  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,'  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word: 

'Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  grey  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !  March  on ! '  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Whittier. 

XCIV 

A   BALLAD   OF  THE   FLEET 

AT  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fluttered   bird,   came  flying 
from  far  away : 


TENNYSON  233 

'  Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea  !  we  have  sighted  fifty- 
three  ! ' 

Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard :  ' '  Fore  God  I 
am  no  coward ; 

But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out 
of  gear, 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.  I  must  fly,  but 
follow  quick. 

We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ;  can  we  fight  with  fifty- 
three?' 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :   '  I  know  you  are 

no  coward ; 
You    fly  them    for    a   moment   to   fight   with   them 

again. 
But   I've   ninety  men  and   more  that  are  lying  sick 

ashore. 
I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my 

Lord  Howard, 
To    these    Inquisition    dogs   and    the    devildoms   of 

Spain.' 

So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five  ships  of  war 

that  day, 
Till   he   melted   like   a   cloud    in  the  silent  summer 

heaven ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  the  sick  men  from 

the  land 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below ; 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 


234  TENNYSON 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not 

left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of 

the  Lord. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and 

to  fight, 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores   till    the   Spaniard 

came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather 

bow. 

'Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 
There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be 

set.' 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  'We  be  all  good  English 

men. 
Let  us  bang  those  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the 

devil, 
For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet.' 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and  we  roared  a 
hurrah,  and  so 

The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the 
foe, 

With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety 
sick  below; 

For  half  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left 
were  seen, 

And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  through  the  long  sea- 
lane  between. 


TENNYSON  235 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down  from  their 

decks  and  laughed, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad 

little  craft 

Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 
By   their   mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen 

hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning 

tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stayed. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us 
like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Ix>ng  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  star- 
board lay, 

And  the  battle  thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  her- 
self and  went, 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill 
content; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought 
us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and 
musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'cm  off  as  a  dog  that 
shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


236  TENNYSON 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far 

over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and 

the  fifty-three. 

Ship   after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high- 
built  galleons   came, 
Ship    after   ship,  the   whole    night    long,   with  her 

battle-thunder  and  flame; 
Ship   after   ship,  the  whole   night  long,  drew  back 

with  her  dead  and  her  shame. 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shattered,  and 

so  could  fight  us  no  more — 
God  of  battles,   was   ever  a  battle   like  this  in  the 

world  before  ? 

For  he  said,  'Fight  on!  fight  on! ' 

Though  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer 

night  was  gone, 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly 

dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and 

the  head, 
And  he  said,  'Fight  on!  fight  on! ' 

And   the   night  went  down  and  the  sun  smiled  out 

far  over  the  summer  sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us 

all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  feared 

that  we  still  could  sting, 


TENNYSON  237 

So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 

And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 

But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 

Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 

And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maimed  for  life 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate 

strife ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of 

them  stark  and  cold, 
And   the   pikes   were   all   broken  or  bent,  and  the 

powder  was  all  of  it  spent; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the 

side; 

But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride : 

'We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 

We  have  <88UP  great  glory,  my  men! 

And  a  day  less  or  more . 

At  sea  or  ashore, 

We  die — does  it  matter  when? 

Sink  me  the   ship,  Master   Gunner — sink  her,  split 

her  in  twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of 

Spain!' 

And  the  gunner  said,  'Ay,  ay,'  but  the  seamen  made 

reply : 

'We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to 

let  us  go ; 


238  TENNYSON 

We   shall   live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another 

blow. ' 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the 

foe. 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore 

him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard 

caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly 

foreign  grace; 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried : 
'I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant 

man  and  true; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do: 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Grenville  die ! ' 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks  and  he  died. 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant 

and  true, 
And   had   holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so 

cheap 
That   he   dared  her  with   one   little   ship   and   his 

English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?     He  was  devil  for  aught  they 

knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour  down  into  the 

deep, 
And  they  manned  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  alien 

crew, 
And   away  she  sailed  with  her  loss  and  longed  for 

her  own; 


TENNYSON  239 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruined  awoke 
from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to 
moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earth- 
quake grew, 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their 
masts  and  their  flags, 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot- 
shattered  navy  of  Spain, 

And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down  by  the 
island  crags 

To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

xcv 
THE   HEAVY   BRIGADE 

THE  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy 

Brigade ! 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands  of  Russians, 
Thousands  of  horsemen,   drew   to   the   valley — and 

stayed ; 
For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hundred  were  riding 

by 
When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances  arose  in  the 

sky; 
And  he  called,   'Left  wheel   into   line!'   and  they 

wheeled  and  obeyed. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  host  that  had  halted  he  knew 

not  why, 


240  TENNYSON 

And  he  turned  half  round,  and  he  bad  his  trumpeter 

sound 
To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as  he  waved 

his  blade 
To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose  glory  will  never 

die — 

'Follow,'  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
Followed  the  Heavy  Brigade. 

The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge,  and  the  might 

of  the  fight ! 
Thousands  of  horsemen  had  gathered  there  on  the 

height, 
With  a  wing  pushed  out  to  the  left  and  a  wing  to 

the  right, 
And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close?  but  he  dashed 

up  alone 

Through  the  great  grey  slope  of  men, 
Swayed  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then; 
All  in  a  moment  followed  with  force 
Three  that  were  next  in  their  fiery  course, 
Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse  and  horse, 
Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow  gap  they  had 

made — 

Four  amid  thousands !  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
Gallopt    the    gallant    three    hundred,    the    Heavy 

Brigade. 

Fell  like  a  cannon-shot, 
Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 
Crashed  like  a  hurricane, 


TENNYSON  241 

Broke  through  the  mass  from  below, 
Drove  through  the  midst  of  the  foe, 
Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 
Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 
Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 
Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light! 
And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 
Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the  fight, 
And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the  right, 
And  rolled  them  around  like  a  cloud, — 
O  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle  were  we, 
When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from  sight, 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark  grey  sea, 
And  we  turned  to  each  other,  whispering,  all  dismayed, 
'Lost  are   the   gallant   three   hundred   of   Scarlett's 
Brigade ! ' 

'Lost  one  and  all'  were  the  words 
Muttered  in  our  dismay; 
But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Ix>rds 
Through  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes, 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray — 
Ranged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 
In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day; 


242  DOYLE 

Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 

Staggered  the  mass  from  without, 

Drove  it  in  wild  disarray, 

For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer  and  a  shout, 

And  the  foemen  surged,  and  wavered  and  reeled 

Up  the   hill,  up  the   hill,  up   the   hill,  out   of   th 

field, 
And  over  the  brow  and  away. 

Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge  that  they 

made! 
Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  and  all  the  Brigade ! 

Tennyson. 


XCVI 
THE   PRIVATE   OF  THE   BUFFS 

LAST  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  quaffed,  and  swore; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 


DOYLE  243 

Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame : 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seemed, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow; 
The  smoke,  above  his  father's  door, 

In  grey  soft  eddyings  hung: 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doomed  by  himself,  so  young? 

Yes,  honour  calls ! — witn  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel; 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  frames; 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untamed, 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons. 
So,  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 


214  DOYLE 

XCVII 

THE  RED  THREAD  OF  HONOUR 

ELEVEN  men  of  England 

A  breastwork  charged  in  vain; 
Eleven  men  of  England 

Lie  stripped,  and  gashed,  and  slain. 
Slain;  but  of  foes  that  guarded 

Their  rock-built  fortress  well, 
Some  twenty  had  been  mastered, 

When  the  last  soldier  fell. 

Whilst  Napier  piloted  his  wondrous  way 

Across  the  sand-waves  of  the  desert  sea, 
Then  flashed  at  once,  on  each  fierce  clan,  dismay, 

Lord  of  their  wild  Truckee. 
These  missed  the  glen  to  which  their  steps  were  bent, 

Mistook  a  mandate,  from  afar  half  heard, 
And,  in  that  glorious  error,  calmly  went 
To  death  without  a  word. 

The  robber-chief  mused  deeply 

Above  those  daring  dead; 
'Bring  here,'    at  length  he  shouted, 

'Bring  quick,  the  battle  thread. 
Let  Eblis  blast  for  ever 

Their  souls,  if  Allah  will : 
But  WE  must  keep  unbroken 

The  old  rules  of  the  Hill. 

Before  the  Ghiznee  tiger 

Leapt  forth  to  burn  and  slay; 


DOYLE  245 

Before  the  holy  Prophet 

Taught  our  grim  tribes  to  pray; 

Before  Secunder's  lances 

Pierced  through  each  Indian  glen; 

The  mountain  laws  of  honour 
Were  framed  for  fearless  men. 

Still,  when  a  chief  dies  bravely, 

We  bind  with  green  one  wrist — 
Green  for  the  brave,  for  heroes 

ONE  crimson  thread  we  twist. 
Say  ye,  Oh  gallant  Hillmen, 

For  these,  whose  life  has  fled, 
Which  is  the  fitting  colour, 

The  green  one  or  the  red?  ' 

'Our  brethren,  laid  in  honoured  graves,  may  wear 

Their  green  reward, '  each  noble  savage  said ; 
'To  these,   whom  hawks  and  hungry  wolves  shall 

tear, 
Who  dares  deny  the  red?' 

Thus  conquering  hate,  and  steadfast  to  the  right, 

Fresh  from  the  heart  that  haughty  verdict  came; 
Beneath  a  waning  moon,  each  spectral  height 
Rolled  back  its  loud  acclaim. 

Once  more  the  chief  gazed  keenly 

Down  on  those  daring  dead  ; 
From  his  good  sword  their  heart's  blood 

Crept  to  that  crimson  thread. 
Once  more  he  cried,  'The  judgment, 

Good  friends,  is  wise  and  true, 


246  DOYLE 

But  though  the  red  be  given, 
Have  we  not  more  to  do? 

These  were  not  stirred  by  anger, 

Nor  yet  by  lust  made  bold; 
Renown  they  thought  above  them, 

Nor  did  they  look  for  gold. 
To  them  their  leader's  signal 

Was  as  the  voice  of  God : 
Unmoved,  and  uncomplaining, 

The  path  it  showed  they  trod. 

As,  without  sound  or  struggle, 

The  stars  unhurrying  march, 
Where  Allah's  finger  guides  them, 

Through  yonder  purple  arch, 
These  Franks,  sublimely  silent, 

Without  a  quickened  breath, 
Went  in  the  strength  of  duty 

Straight  to  their  goal  of  death. 

'If  I  were  now  to  ask  you 

To  name  our  bravest  man, 
Ye  all  at  once  would  answer, 

They  called  him  Mehrab  Khan. 
He  sleeps  among  his  fathers, 

Dear  to  our  native  land, 
With  the  bright  mark  he  bled  for 

Firm  round  his  faithful  hand. 

'The  songs  they  sing  of  Rustum 
Fill  all  the  past  with  light; 

If  truth  be  in  their  music, 
He  was  a  noble  knight. 


DOYLE  247 

But  were  those  heroes  living 

And  strong  for  battle  still, 
Would  Mehrad  Khan  or  Rustum 

Have  climbed,  like  these,  the  hill?  ' 

And  they  replied,  'Though  Mehrab  Khan  was  brave, 

As  chief,  he  chose  himself  what  risks  to  run; 
Prince  Rustum  lied,  his  forfeit  life  to  save, 
Which  these  had  never  done.' 

'Enough! '  he  shouted  fiercely; 

Doomed  though  they  be  to  hell, 
Bind  fast  the  crimson  trophy 

Round  BOTH  wrists — bind  it  well. 
Who  knows  but  that  great  Allah 

May  gnidge  such  matchless  men, 
With  none  so  decked  in  heaven, 

To  the  fiends'  flaming  den?  ' 

Then  all  those  gallant  robbers 

Shouted  a  stern  'Amen ! ' 
They  raised  the  slaughtered  sergeant, 

They  raised  his  mangled  ten. 
And  when  we  found  their  bodies 

Left  bleaching  in  the  wind, 
Around  BOTH  wrists  in  glory 

That  crimson  thread  was  twined. 

Then  Napier's  knightly  heart,  touched  to  the  core, 

Rung,  like  an  echo,  to  that  knightly  deed, 
He  bade  its  memory  live  for  evermore, 
That  those  who  run  may  read. 


248  BROWNING 

xcvin 
HOME  THOUGHTS   FROM  THE  SEA 

NOBLY,  nobly  Cape  St.  Vincent  to  the  North-west 
died  away; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into 
Cadiz  Bay; 

Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar 
lay; 

In  the  dimmest  North-east  distance  dawned  Gibral- 
tar grand  and  grey; 

'Here  and  here  did  England  help  me:  how  can  I 
help  England  ?  ' — say, 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise 
and  pray, 

While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 

xcix 
HERVE   RIEL 

ON  the   sea  and   at   the    Hogue,   sixteen  hundred 

ninety-two, 
Did    the    English    fight    the    French, —  woe    to 

France ! 
And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  thro'  the 

blue, 
Like  a  crowd   of   frightened   porpoises   a   shoal   of 

sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the 

Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


BROWNING  249 

'Twas  the  squadron  that   escaped,  with   the   victor 

in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship, 

Damfreville; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
'  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbour,  take  us  quick — 

or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will! ' 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt 

on  board; 
'Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these 

to  pass  ?  '  laughed  they : 
'Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage 

scarred  and  scored, 
Shall    the    Formidable   here   with   her   twelve    and 

eighty  guns 
Think  to   make   the    river-mouth  by  the   single 

narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty 

tons, 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 
Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay ! ' 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 
Brief  and  bitter  the  debate : 


250  BROWNING 

'Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have 

them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern 

and  bow, 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground! ' 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 
'Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on 

the  beach ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

Give  the  word ! '     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid 

all  these 
—  A    Captain?      A    Lieutenant?      A    Mate  —  first, 

second,  third? 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete ! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville 

for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herv£  Kiel  the  Croisickese. 

And,    'What   mockery   or   malice    have    we    here?' 

cries  Herve1  Kiel : 
'Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?     Are  you  cowards, 

fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the 

soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 


BROWNING  251 

'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river 

disembogues? 
Are  you  bought  by   English  gold?     Is  it  love   the 

lying's  for? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 

Entered    free    and    anchored    fast    at    the    foot  of 
Solidor. 

Burn    the    fleet   and    ruin    France?     That    were 

worse  than  fifty  Hogues! 

Sirs,   they  know  I  speak  the  truth!     Sirs,   be- 
lieve me  there's  a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I  lead   them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage   I 

know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 

— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life, — here's  my  head!" 
cries  Herve  Kiel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

'Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron! ' 

cried  his  chief. 
'Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 


252  BROWNING 

Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace! 

See  the  noble  fellow's  face, 

As  the  big  ship  with  a  bound, 

Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide 

seas  profound ! 

See,  safe  thro'  shoal  and  rock, 
How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates 

the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past, 
All  are  harboured  to  the  last, 
And  just  as  Herv£  Riel   hollas   'Anchor!' — sure  as 

fate 
Up  the  English  come,  too  late ! 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
'Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance, 

As  they  cannonade  away ! 
'Neath   rampired    Solidor    pleasant    riding   on   the 

Ranee ! ' 

How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  coun- 
tenance ! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

'This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 


BROWNING  253 

Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing! ' 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

'Herv(§  Kiel!' 

As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 
Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  'My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my  name's  not 
Damfreville.' 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue : 
'Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it 

but  a  run? — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come!     A  good  whole  holiday! 


254  WHITMAN 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the 

Belle  Aurore ! ' 
That  he  asked  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing  smack, 

In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to 
wrack 

All    that    France    saved    from   the   fight   whence 

England  bore  the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank ! 

You   shall   look   long    enough    ere    you  come   to 

Herve  Kiel. 

So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herv6  Kiel,  accept  my  verse ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Kiel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honour  France,  love  thy  wife,  the 

Belle  Aurore ! 

Browning. 

C 

THE   DYING  FIREMAN 

I  AM  the  mashed  fireman  with  breast-bone  broken, 
Tumbling  walls  buried  me  in  their  debris, 
Heat  and   smoke   I    inspired,    I   heard    the    yelling 
shouts  of  my  comrades, 


WHITMAN  255 

I  heard  the  distant  click  of  their  picks  and  shovels, 
They  have  cleared   the   beams   away,  they  tenderly 
lift  me  forth. 

I  lie  in  the  night  air  in  my  red  shirt,  the  pervading 

hush  is  for  my  sake, 

Painless  after  all  I  lie,  exhausted  but  not  so  unhappy, 
White  and  beautiful  are  the  faces  around  me,   the 

heads  are  bared  of  their  fire-caps, 
The  kneeling  crowd  fades  with  the  light  of  the  torches. 

ci 
A  SEA-FIGHT 

WOULD  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea-fight? 

Would  you  learn  who  won  by  the  light  of  the  moon 

and  stars? 
List  to  the  yarn,   as  my  grandmother's   father   the 

sailor  told  it  to  me. 

'Our  foe  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship,  I  tell  you  (said  he), 
His  was  the  surly  English  pluck,  and   there   is   no 
tougher  or  truer,  and  never  was,  and  never  will  be; 
Along  the  lowered  eve  he  came  horribly  raking  us. 

We    closed    with    him,    the    yards    entangled,    the 

cannon  touched, 
My  captain  lashed  fast  with  his  own  hnmls. 

We  had  received  some  eighteen-pound  shots  under 

the  water, 
On   our  lower-gun-deck    two  large  pieces  had  burst 

at  the  first  fire,  killing  all  around  and  blowing 

up  overhead. 


256  WHITMAN 

Fighting  at  sun-down,  fighting  at  dark, 

Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the  full  moon  well  up,  our 
leaks  on  the  gain,  and  five  feet  of  water  reported, 

The  master-at-arms  loosing  the  prisoners  confined  in 
the  after-hold  to  give  them  a  chance  for  them- 
selves. 

The  transit  to  and  from  the  magazine  is  now  stopt 

by  the  sentinels, 
They  see  so  many  strange  faces  they  do  not  know 

whom  to  trust. 

Our  frigate  takes  fire, 

The  other  asks  if  we  demand  quarter? 

If  our  colours  are  struck  and  the  fighting  done? 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of   my 

little  captain, 
"  We  have  not  struck,"  he  composedly  cries,  "  we  have 

just  begun  our  part  of  the  fighting." 

Only  three  guns  are  in  use, 

One  is  directed  by  the  captain  himself  against  the 

enemy's  main-mast, 
Two  well  served  with  grape  and  canister  silence  his 

musketry  and  clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery, 

especially  the  main-top, 
They  hold  out  bravely  during  the  whole  of  the  action. 

Not  a  moment's  cease, 

The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire  eats  to- 
ward the  powder-magazine. 


WHITMAN  257 

One  of  the  pumps  had  been  shot  away,  it  is  generally 
thought  we  are  sinking. 

Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 
He  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high  nor  low, 
His   eyes   give   more    light   to   us,  than  our  battle- 
lanterns. 

Toward  twelve,  there  in  the  beams  of  die  moon,  they 
surrender  to  us.' 

en 
BEAT!   BEAT!   DRUMS! 

BEAT!  beat!  drums! — blow!  bugles!  blow! 
Through  the  windows — through  doors — burst  like  a 

ruthless  force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation, 
Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying; 
Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet — no  happiness  must 

he  have  now  with  his  bride, 
Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  ploughing   his 

field  or  gathering  his  grain, 
So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound,  you  drums — so  shrill, 

you  bugles,  blow. 

Beat!  beat!  drums! — blow!  bugles!  blow! 

Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  nimble  of  wheels 

in  the  streets; 
Are    beds   prepared    for   sleepers   at    night    in    the 

houses?  no  sleepers  must  sleep  in  those  beds, 
No    bargainers'    bargains  by   day — no    brokers    or 

speculators — would  they  continue? 


258  WHITMAN 

Would    the   talkers  be   talking?    would   the   singer 

attempt  to  sing? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case 

before  the  judge? 
Then   rattle    quicker,   heavier,    drums — you  bugles, 

wilder  blow. 

Beat!  beat!  drums! — blow!  bugles!  blow! 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 

Mind  not  the  timid — mind  not  the  weeper  or  prayer, 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 

Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's 

entreaties, 
Make  even  the  trestle  to  shake  the  dead  where  they 

lie  awaiting  the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump,  O  terrible  drums — so  loud,  you 

bugles,  blow. 

cm 
TWO  VETERANS 

THE  last  sunbeam 

Lightly  falls  from  the  finished  Sabbath, 
On  the  pavement  here,  and  there  beyond  it  is  looking 

Down  a  new-made  double  grave. 

Lo !  the  moon  ascending, 
Up  from  the  east  the  silvery  round  moon, 
Beautiful    over    the    house-tops,    ghastly,    phantom 
moon, 

Immense  and  silent  moon. 


WHITMAN  259 

I  see  a  sad  procession, 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  full-keyed  bugles, 
All  the  channels  of  the  city  streets  they're  flooding, 

As  with  voices  and  with  tears. 

I  hear  the  great  drums  pounding, 
And  the  small  drums  steady  whirring, 
And  every  blow  of  the  great  convulsive  drums 

Strikes  me  through  and  through. 

For  the  son  is  brought  with  the  father, 
(In  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  fierce  assault  they  fell, 
Two  veterans  son  and  father  dropt  together, 

And  the  double  grave  awaits  them). 

Now  nearer  blow  the  bugles, 
And  the  drums  strike  more  convulsive, 
And  the  daylight  o'er  the  pavement  quite  has  faded, 

And  the  strong  dead-march  enwraps  me. 

In  the  eastern  sky  up-buoying, 
The  sorrowful  vast  phantom  moves  illumined, 
('Tis  some  mother's  large  transparent  face 

In  heaven  brighter  growing). 

O  strong  dead-march  you  please  me ! 
O  moon  immense  with  your  silvery  face  you  soothe  me ! 
O  my  soldiers  twain !  O  my  veterans  passing  to  burial ! 

What  I  have  I  also  give  you. 

The  moon  gives  you  light, 
And  the  bugles  and  the  drums  give  you  music, 
And  my  heart,  O  my  soldiers,  my  veterans, 

My  heart  gives  you  love. 


260  KINGSLEY 

CIV 

THE   PLEASANT  ISLE  OF  AVES 

OH  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them  that's  rich 

and  high, 

But  England  is  a  cruel  place  for  such  poor  folks  as  I; 
And  such  a  port  for  mariners  I  ne'er  shall  see  again 
As  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  beside  the  Spanish 

main. 

There  were  forty  craft  in  Aves  that  were  both  swift 

and  stout, 
All   furnished   well  with   small    arms  and   cannons 

round  about; 
And  a  thousand  men  in  Aves  made  laws  so  fair  and 

free 
To   choose   their  valiant   captains   and   obey   them 

loyally. 

Thence   we   sailed   against    the   Spaniard   with    his 

hoards  of  plate  and  gold, 
Which  he  wrung  with  cruel  tortures  from  Indian 

folk  of  old; 
Likewise  the  merchant  captains,  with  hearts  as  hard 

as  stone, 
Who  flog  men  and  keel-haul  them,  and  starve  them 

to  the  bone. 

O   the   palms   grew  high   in  Aves,   and   fruits   that 

shone  like  gold, 
And  the  colibris  and  parrots  they  were  gorgeous  to 

behold; 


KINGSLEY  261 

And  the  negro  maids  to  Aves  from  bondage  fast  did 

flee, 
To  welcome  gallant  sailors,  a-sweeping  in  from  sea. 

O    sweet    it    was    in    Aves    to    hear    the    landward 

breeze, 

A-swing  with  good  tobacco  in  a  net  between  the  trees, 
With  a  negro  lass  to  fan  you,  while  you  listened  to 

the  roar 
Of   the   breakers   on   the   reef    outside,    that   never 

touched  the  shore. 

But  Scripture   saith,   an  ending   to  all   fine   things 

must  be ; 
So  the  King's  ships  sailed  on  Aves,  and  quite  put 

down  were  we. 
All  day  we  fought  like  bulldogs,  but  they  burst  the 

booms  at  night; 
And  1  fled  in  a  piragua,  sore  wounded,  from  the  fight. 

Nine  days  I  floated  starving,  and  a  negro  lass  beside, 
Till,  for  all    I   tried   to   cheer  her,  the  poor  young 

thing  she  died; 

But  as  I  lay  a-gasping,  a  Bristol  sail  came  by, 
And   brought   me   home   to   England   here,   to   beg 

until  I  die. 

And  now  I'm  old  and  going — I'm  sure  I  can't  tell 

where ; 
One  comfort  is,  this  world's  so  hard,  I  can't  be  worse 

off  there: 

If  I  might  but  be  a  sea-dove,  I'd  fly  across  the  main, 
To  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  to  look  at  it  once  again. 


262  KINGSLEY 

cv 
A  WELCOME 

WELCOME,  wild  North-easter. 

Shame  it  is  to  see 
Odes  to  every  zephyr; 

Ne'er  a  verse  to  thee. 
Welcome,  black  North-easter! 

O'er  the  German  foam; 
O'er  the  Danish  moorlands, 

From  thy  frozen  home. 
Tired  we  are  of  summer, 

Tired  of  gaudy  glare, 
Showers  soft  and  steaming, 

Hot  and  breathless  air. 
Tired  of  listless  dreaming, 

Through  the  lazy  day: 
Jovial  wind  of  winter 

Turns  us  out  to  play ! 
Sweep  the  golden  reed-beds; 

Crisp  the  lazy  dyke; 
Hunger  into  madness 

Every  plunging  pike. 
Fill  the  lake  with  wild-fowl; 

Fill  the  marsh  with  snipe; 
While  on  dreary  moorlands 

Lonely  curlew  pipe. 
Through  the  black  fir-forest 

Thunder  harsh  and  dry, 
Shattering  down  the  snow-flakes 

Off  the  curdled  sky. 


KINGSLEY  263 

Hark !     The  brave  North-easter ! 

Breast-high  lies  the  scent, 
On  by  holt  and  headland, 

Over  heath  and  bent. 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings, 

Through  the  sleet  and  snow. 
Who  can  over-ride  you? 

Let  the  horses  go ! 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings, 

Down  the  roaring  blast; 
You  shall  see  a  fox  die 

Ere  an  hour  be  past. 
Go !  and  rest  to-morrow, 

Hunting  in  your  dreams, 
While  our  skates  are  ringing 

O'er  the  frozen  streams. 
Let  the  luscious  South-wind 

Breathe  in  lovers'  sighs, 
While  the  lazy  gallants 

Bask  in  ladies'  eyes. 
What  does  he  but  soften 

Heart  alike  and  pen? 
'Tis  the  hard  grey  weather 

Breeds  hard  Knglish  men. 
What's  the  soft  South-wester? 

'Tis  the  ladies'  breeze, 
Bringing  home  their  true-loves 

Out  of  all  the  seas: 
But  the  black  North-easter, 

Through  the  snowstorm  hurled, 
Drives  our  Knglish  hearts  of  oak 

Seaward  round  the  world. 


264  YULE 

Come,  as  came  our  fathers, 

Heralded  by  thee, 
Conquering  from  the  eastward, 

Lords  by  land  and  sea. 
Come;  and  strong  within  us 

Stir  the  Vikings'  blood; 
Bracing  brain  and  sinew; 

Blow,  thou  wind  of  God ! 

Kingsley. 

CVI 

THE   BIRKENHEAD 

AMID  the  loud  ebriety  of  War, 
With  shouts  of  '  la  Republique '  and  *  la  Gloire,' 
The  Vengeur's  crew,  'twas  said,  with  flying  flag 
And  broadside  blazing  level  with  the  wave 
Went  down  erect,  defiant,  to  their  grave 
Beneath  the  sea. — 'Twas  but  a  Frenchman's  brag, 
Yet  Europe  rang  with  it  for  many  a  year. 
Now  we  recount  no  fable ;  Europe,  hear ! 
And  when  they  tell  thee  '  England  is  a  fen 
Corrupt,  a  kingdom  tottering  to  decay, 
Her  nerveless  burghers  lying  an  easy  prey 
For  the  first  comer, '  tell  how  the  other  day 
A  crew  of  half  a  thousand  Englishmen 
Went  down  into  the  deep  in  Simon's  Bay! 

Not  with  the  cheer  of  battle  in  the  throat, 

Or  cannon-glare  and  din  to  stir  their  blood, 

But,  roused  from  dreams  of  home  to  find  their  boat 


ARNOLD  265 

Fast  sinking,  mustered  on  the  deck  they  stood, 
Biding  God's  pleasure  and  their  chief's  command. 
Calm  was  the  sea,  but  not  less  calm  that  band 
Close  ranged  upon  the  poop,  with  bated  breath 
But  flinching  not  though  eye  to   eye  with   Death ! 
Heroes ! 

Who  were  those  Heroes?     Veterans  steeled 
To  face  the  King  of  Terrors  mid  the  scaith 
Of  many  an  hurricane  and  trenched  field? 
Far  other:  weavers  from  the  stocking-frame; 
Boys  from  the  plough;  cornets  with  beardless  chin, 
But  steeped  in  honour  and  in  discipline ! 

Weep,  Britain,  for  the  Cape  whose  ill-starred  name*, 
Long  since  divorced  from  Hope  suggests  but  shame, 
Disaster,  and  thy  Captains  held  at  bay 
By  naked  hordes;  but  as  thou  weepest,  thank 
Heaven  for  those  undegenerate  sons  who  sank 

Aboard  the  Birkenhead  in  Simon's  Bay! 

Yule. 

cvn 
APOLLO 

THROUGH  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame; 
All  Ktna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo ! 
Are  haunts  meet  for  thce. 
But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff  to  the  sea, 


266  ARNOLD 

Where  the  moon-silvered  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
O  speed,  and  rejoice ! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks. 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lulled  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

— What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flowered  broom? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime? — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 
— The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows ! 
They  stream  up  again ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train? — 


ARNOLD  267 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  the  road; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 

—Whose  praise  do  they  mention? 
Of  what  is  it  told  ?— 
What  will  be  for  ever; 
What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things;  and  then, 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  day  in  his  hotness, 
The  strife  with  the  palm; 
The  night  in  her  silence, 
The  stars  in  their  calm. 


CVIII 

THE   DEATH   OF  SOHRAB 

THE    DUEL 

HE  spoke,  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taunts, 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword;  at  once  they  rushed 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west;  their  shields 
Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 


268  ARNOLD 

Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees — such  blows 

Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 

And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took  part 

In  that  unnatural  conflict;  for  a  cloud 

Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  darkened  the  sun 

Over  the  fighters'  heads;  and  a  wind  rose 

Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain, 

And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapped  the  pair. 

In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and  they  alone; 

For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 

Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure, 

And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 

But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  bloodshot  eyes 

And  labouring  breath;  first  Rustum  struck  the  shield 

Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out;  the  steel-spiked  spear 

Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  failed  to  reach  the  skin, 

And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry  groan. 

Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum1  s  helm, 

Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through;  but  all  the  crest 

He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair  plume, 

Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust; 

And  Rustum  bowed  his  head;  but  then  the  gloom 

Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 

And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;  and  Ruksh,  the  horse, 

Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful  cry; — 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 

Of  some  pained  desert-lion,  who  all  day 

Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 

And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand. 

The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked  for  fear, 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 


ARNOLD  269 

But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  but  rushed  on, 
And  struck  again;  and  again  Rustum  bowed 
His  head;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like  glass, 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 
And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head;  his  dreadful  eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing  spear, 
And  shouted :  Rustum! — Sohrab  heard  that  shout, 
And  shrank  amazed;  back  he  recoiled  one  step, 
And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  advancing  form; 
And  then  he  stood  bewildered;  and  he  dropped 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced  his  side. 
He  reeled,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to  the  ground; 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the  wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair — 
Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 

SOHRAB 

Then  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began: — 
'Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse, 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 
Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would  move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame, 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 


270  ARNOLD 

Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man ! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackets  shalt  thou  be 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old. ' 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  replied: — 
'Unknown  thou  art;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful  man ! 
No !  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men  as  thee, 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was, 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my  shield 
Fall;  and  thy  spear  transfix  an  unarmed  foe. 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insultest  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to  hear : 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world, 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee ! ' 

As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath  found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 
And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose, 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  off; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  decries 
His  huddling  young  left-sole;  at  that  he  checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest;  but  she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 


ARNOLD  271 

In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers — never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his  loss, 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but  stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 

But,  with  a  cold,  incredulous  voice  he  said : 
'What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son.' 

And  with  a  failing  voice  Sohrab  replied: 
'Ah  yes,  he  had !  and  that  lost  son  am  I, 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries  long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far  from  here; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance  be? 
O  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen  ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 
With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows  grey 
With  age,  and  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honour,  when  the  war  is  done. 
Hut  a  dark  rumour  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 


272  ARNOLD 

That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more, 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe, 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain.' 

THE   RECOGNITION 

He  spoke,  and  as  he  ceased  he  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He  spoke;  but  Rustum  listened  plunged  in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names  he  knew; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all — 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms. 
And  as  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum 's  son; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deemed  he;  yet  he  listened  plunged  in  thought; 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon;  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes; 
For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn, 
The  shepherd  from  his  mountain-lodge  descries 
A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds — so  Rustum  saw 
His  youth;  saw  Sohrab's  mother,  in  her  bloom; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved  well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair  child 
With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led, 


ARNOLD  273 

They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer-time — 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 
In  Ader-baijan.     And  he  saw  that  Youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand, 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth  which  by  the  scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 
And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass — so  Sohrab  lay, 
Ixjvely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And  Rustum  g.ized  on  him  in  grief,  and  said: 

'O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have  loved : 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thce  false — thou  art  not  Rustum' s  son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son;  one  child  he  had — 
But  one — a  girl;  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war.1 

But  Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath;  for  now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fixed  spear  grew  fierce, 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  iet  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die — 
Hut  first  lie  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said: 

'Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my  words? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from  mine. 
I  tell  thcc,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 


274  ARNOLD 

That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore.' 

He  spoke;  and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum' s  cheeks, 
And  his  knees  tottered,  and  he  smote  his  hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 
That  the  hard  iron  corselet  clanked  aloud; 
And  to  his  heart  he  pressed  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake  and  said : 

'Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  that  could  not  lie! 
If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum 's  son.' 

Then  with  weak  hasty  fingers  Sohrab  loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his  arm, 
And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain  vase, 
An  emperor's  gift — at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes,  the  lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin  hands — 
So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's  seal. 
It  was  that  griffin,  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to  die, 
A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks; 
Him    that    kind    creature    found,    and   reared,    and 

loved — 

Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful  eyes, 
And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand  and  said : — 

'How  sayest  thou?     Is  that  sign  the  proper  sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?  ' 


ARNOLD  275 

RUKSH  THE   HORSE 

He  spoke ;  but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed,  and  stood 
Speechless;  and  then  he  uttered  one  sharp  cry: 

0  boy — thy  father! — and  his  voice  choked  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  passed  before  his  eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to  earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked  his  cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life;  and  life 

Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his  eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;  and  he  seized 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around, 
And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched  his  hair, — 
His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering  arms; 
And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his  breast, 
And  his  sobs  choked  him;  and  he  clutched  his  sword, 
To  draw  it,  and  for  ever  let  life  out. 
But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his  hands, 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and  said: 

'  Father,  forbear !  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  which  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious  hand. 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee;  and  thy  heart  spoke  too, 

1  know  it!  but  fate  trod  these  promptings  down 
Under  its  iron  heel;  fate,  fate  engaged 

The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father's  spear. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this!     I  find 
My  father;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found! 


276  ARNOLD 

Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say :  My  son! 
Quick !  quick !  for  numbered  are  my  sands  of  life, 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away — 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should  be. ' 

So  said  he,  and  his  voice  released  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth;  he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kissed  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both  the  hosts, 
When    they    saw    Rustum' s   grief;   and    Ruksh    the 

horse, 

With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground  and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute  woe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compassionate  eyes, 
The  big  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked  the  sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and  said : — 

'Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest;  but,  O  Ruksh,  thy  feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble  joints, 
Or  ere  they  brought  thy  master  to  this  field ! ' 

But  Sohrab  looked  upon  the  horse  and  said : 
'Is  this,  then,  Ruksh?     How  often  in  past  days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  steed, 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse!  and  said, 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane ! 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I; 


ARNOLD  277 

For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 

And  snuffed  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home. 

And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 

And  seen  the  river  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lake 

Of  Zirrah;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 

Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given  thee  food, 

Corn  in  a  golden  platter  soaked  with  wine, 

And  said :   O  Ruksh!  bear  Rustum  well! — but  I 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  furrowed  face, 

Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 

Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund  stream; 

But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and  seen 

Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 

And  the  black  Toorkman  tents;  and  only  drunk 

The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 

Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their  sheep, 

The  northern  Sir;  and  this  great  Oxus  stream, 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die.' 

RUSTUM 

Then  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  bewailed : 
'  O  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me  ! 
O  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head ! ' 

But  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  replied: — 
'Desire  not  that,  my  father!  thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live, 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 


278  ARNOLD 

And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come !  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me ;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these ! 
Let  me  entreat  for  them;  what  have  they  done? 
They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But   me    thou    must    bear    hence,    not    send    with 

them, 

But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, 
Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all  thy  friends. 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all. 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  cry : 
Sohraby  the  mighty  Rustuni 's  son,  lies  here, 
WJioni  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill ! 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave.' 

And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum  replied : 
'  Fear  not !  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son, 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents, 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  thee, 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends. 
And.  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 
And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 


ARNOLD  279 

And  I  will  spare  thy  host;  yea,  let  them  go! 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace ! 

What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 

For  would  that  all  whom  I  have  ever  slain 

Might  be  once  more  alive — my  bitterest  foes, 

And  they  who  were  called  champions  in  their  time, 

And    through   whose    death    I    won    that    fame    I 

have — 

And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown, 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my  son  ! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself, 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine!  and  I  might  die,  not  thou; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan; 
And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not  thine; 
And  say :  O  Son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  mefst  thine  end! 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age, 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood.' 

Then  at  the  point  of  death,  Sohrab  replied: 
'A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace ;  only  not  now, 
Not  yet!  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day, 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave.' 


280  ARNOLD 

NIGHT 

And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and  said: 
'Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that  sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure.' 

He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish;  but  the  blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flowed  with  the  stream; — all  down  his  cold  white 

side 

The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and  soiled, 
Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,  on  their  native  bank, 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with  haste 
Indoors  from  the  sun's  eye;  his  head  dropped  low, 
His  limbs  grew  slack;  motionless,  white,  he  lay — 
White,  with  eyes  closed;  only  when  heavy  gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps  quivering  through  all  his  frame, 
Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened  them, 
And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed,  and  from  his  limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left, 
And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful  world. 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead; 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's  cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars  once  high-reared 
By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights  of  steps 


ARNOLD  281 

Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side, 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn  waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darkened  all;  and  a  cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog;  for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their  meal; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge ; 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian  waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon; — he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large;  then  sands  begin 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams, 
And  split  his  currents;  that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles — 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamcre 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 
His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-bathed  stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 


282  ARNOLD 


cix 


FLEE   FRO'   THE  PRESS 

O  BORN  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 

With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertaxed,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife — 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear ! 

Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 

Wave  us  away  and  keep  thy  solitude ! 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 

Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free,  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silvered  branches  of  the  glade — 

Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue, 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 

Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 

With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales ! 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 


ARNOLD  283 

Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 

Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfixed  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made; 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles ! 
As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-haired  creepers  stealthily, 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 

Among  the  ^grean  isles; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 
Green,     bursting    figs,    and    tunnies    steeped    in 

brine — 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the  waves — 
And  snatched   his   rudder,  and   shook   out   more 

sail; 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtcs  and  soft  Sicily, 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits;  and  unbent  sails 

There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of 

foam, 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 


284  CORY 

cx 
SCHOOL  FENCIBLES 

WE  come  in  arms,  we  stand  ten  score, 

Embattled  on  the  castle  green; 
We  grasp  our  firelocks  tight,  for  war 

Is  threatening,  and  we  see  our  Queen, 
And  'Will  the  churls  last  out  till  we 

Have  duly  hardened  bones  and  thews 
For  scouring  leagues  of  swamp  and  sea 

Of  braggart  mobs  and  corsair  crews? ' 
We  ask;  we  fear  not  scoff  or  smile 

At  meek  attire  of  blue  and  grey, 
For  the  proud  wrath  that  thrills  our  isle 

Gives  faith  and  force  to  this  array. 
So  great  a  charm  is  England's  right, 

That  hearts  enlarged  together  flow, 
And  each  man  rises  up  a  knight 

To  work  the  evil-thinkers  woe. 
And,  girt  with  ancient  truth  and  grace, 

We  do  our  service  and  our  suit, 
And  each  can  be,  whate'er  his  race, 

A  Chandos  or  a  Montacute. 
Thou,  Mistress,  whom  we  serve  to-day, 

Bless  the  real  swords  that  we  shall  wield, 
Repeat  the  call  we  now  obey 

In  sunset  lands,  on  some  fair  field. 
Thy  flag  shall  make  some  Huron  rock 

As  dear  to  us  as  Windsor's  keep, 
And  arms  thy  Thames  hath  nerved  shall  mock 

The  surgings  of  th'  Ontarian  deep. 


CORY  i!>j 

The  stately  music  of  thy  Guards, 

Which  times  our  march  beneath  thy  ken, 
Shall  sound,  with  spells  of  sacred  bards, 

From  heart  to  heart,  when  we  are  men. 
And  when  we  bleed  on  alien  earth, 

We'll  call  to  mind  how  cheers  of  ours 
Proclaimed  a  loud  uncourtly  mirth 

Amongst  thy  glowing  orange  bowers. 
And  if  for  England's  sake  we  fall, 

So  be  it,  so  thy  cross  be  won, 
Fixed  by  kind  hands  on  silvered  pall, 

And  worn  in  death,  for  duty  done. 
Ah!  thus  we  fondle  Death,  the  soldier's  mate, 

Blending  his  image  with  the  hopes  of  youth 
To  hallow  all;  meanwhile  the  hidden  fate 

Chills  not  our  fancies  with  the  iron  truth. 
Death  from  afar  we  call,  and  Death  is  here, 

To  choose  out  him  who  wears  the  loftiest  mien; 
And  Grief,  the  cruel  lord  who  knows  no  peer, 

Breaks  through  the  shield  of  love  to  pierce  our 
Queen. 

CXI 

THE  TWO  CAPTAINS 

WHEN   George   the   Third  was  reigning  a   hundred 

years  ago, 

lie  ordered  Captain  Farmer  to  chase  the  foreign  foe. 
'You're    not   afraid   of   shot,'  said   he,  'you're    not 

afraid  of  wreck, 
So  cruise  about  the  west  of  France    in    the    frigate 

called  Quebec. 


286  CORY 

Quebec  was  once  a  Frenchman's  town,  but  twenty 

years  ago 
King  George  the  Second  sent  a  man  called  General 

Wolfe,  you  know, 

To  clamber  up  a  precipice  and  look  into  Quebec, 
As  you'd  look  down  a  hatchway  when  standing  on 

the  deck. 

If  Wolfe  could  beat  the  Frenchmen  then  so  you  can 

beat  them  now. 

Before  he  got  inside  the  town  he  died,  I  must  allow. 
But  since  the  town  was  won  for  us  it  is  a  lucky  name, 
And  you'll  remember  Wolfe's  good  work,  and  you 

shall  do  the  same.' 

Then  Farmer  said,  'I'll  try,  sir,'  and  Farmer  bowed 

so  low 

That  George  could  see  his  pigtail  tied  in  a  velvet  bow. 
George  gave  him  his  commission,  and  that  it  might 

be  safer, 
Signed  'King  of  Britain,  King  of  France,'  and  sealed 

it  with  a  wafer. 

Then  proud  was  Captain  Farmer  in  a  frigate  of  his  own, 
And  grander  on  his  quarter-deck  than  George  upon 

the  throne. 

He'd  two  guns  in  his  cabin,  and  on  the  spar-deck  ten, 
And  twenty  on  the  gun-deck,  and  more  than  ten 

score  men. 

And  as  a  huntsman  scours  the  brakes  with   sixteen 

brace  of  dogs, 
With  two-and-thirty  cannon  the  ship  explored  the  fogs. 


CORY  287 

From  Cape  la  Hogue  to  Ushant,  from  Rochefort  to 

Belleisle, 
She  hunted  game  till  reef  and  mud  were  rubbing  on 

her  keel. 

The  fogs  are  dried,  the  frigate's  side  is  bright  with 

melting  tar, 
The   lad  up  in  the  foretop  sees  square  white  sails 

afar: 
The  east  wind  drives  three  square-sailed  masts  from 

out  the  Breton  bay, 
And  'Clear  for  action!'  Farmer  shouts,  and  reefers 

yell  'Hooray!' 

The  Frenchman's  captain  had  a  name  I  wish  I  could 

pronounce; 
A  Breton  gentleman  was  he,   and  wholly  free  from 

bounce, 

One  like  those  famous  fellows  who  died  by  guillotine 
For  honour  and  the  fleurs-dc-lys  and  Antoinette  the 

Queen. 

The  Catholic  for  Louis,  the  Protestant  for  George, 
Kach  captain  drew  as  bright  a  sword  as  saintly  smiths 

could  forge; 
And   both    were    simple    seamen,    but    both    could 

understand 
How  each  was  bound  to  win   or  die   for   flag   and 

native  land. 

The  French  ship  was   la  Surveillante,  which  means 

the  watchful  maid ; 
She  folded  up  her  head-dress  and  began  to  cannonade. 


288  CORY 

Her  hull  was  clean,  and  ours  was  foul;  we  had  to 

spread  more  sail. 
On  canvas,  stays,  and  topsail  yards  her  bullets  came 

like  hail. 

Sore  smitten  were  both  captains,  and  many  lads  beside, 
And  still  to  cut  our  rigging  the  foreign  gunners  tried. 
A  sail-clad  spar  came  napping  down  athwart  a  blazing 

gun; 
We  could  not  quench  the  rushing  flames,  and  so  the 

Frenchman  won. 

Our  quarter-deck   was   crowded,   the   waist  was   all 

aglow; 
Men  hung  upon  the  taffrail  half  scorched,  but  loth 

to  go; 
Our  captain  sat  where  once  he  stood,  and  would  not 

quit  his  chair. 
He  bade  his  comrades  leap  for  life,  and  leave  him 

bleeding  there. 

The  guns  were  hushed  on  either  side,  the  Frenchmen 

lowered  boats, 
They  flung  us  planks  and  hencoops,  and  everything 

that  floats. 
They  risked  their  lives,  good  fellows !  to  bring  their 

rivals  aid. 
'Twas  by  the  conflagration  the  peace  was  strangely 

made. 

La  Surveillante  was  like  a  sieve ;  the  victors  had  no  rest. 
They  had  to  dodge  the  east  wind  to  reach  the  port 
of  Brest. 


CORY 


289 


And  where  the  waves  leapt   lower,  and  the   riddled 

ship  went  slower, 
In  triumph,  yet  in  funeral  guise,  came  fisher-boats  to 

tow  her. 

They  dealt  with  us  as  brethren,  they  mourned   for 

Farmer  dead; 
And  as  the  wounded   captives   passed   each   Breton 

bowed  the  head. 
Then  spoke  the  French  Lieutenant,  '  'Twas  fire  that 

won,  not  we. 
You   never   struck    your   flag   to   us;   you'll    go    to 

England  free.' 

'Twas  the  sixth  day  of  October,  seventeen  hundred 
seventy-nine, 

A  year  when  nations  ventured  against  us  to  com- 
bine, 

Quebec  was  burnt  and  Farmer  slain,  by  us  re- 
membered not; 

But  thanks  be  to  the  French  book  wherein  they're 
not  forgot. 

Now  you,  if  you've  to  fight  the  French,  my  youngster, 

bear  in  mind 
Those  seamen    of    King    Louis    so    chivalrous   and 

kind; 
Think  of  the  Breton  gentlemen  who  took  our  lads  to 

Brest, 
And  treat  some  rescued  Breton  as  a  comrade  and  a 

guest. 


290  MEREDITH 

cxn 
THE   HEAD     OF  BRAN 

WHEN  the  head  of  Bran 

Was  firm  on  British  shoulders, 

God  made  a  man ! 
Cried  all  beholders. 

Steel  could  not  resist 

The  weight  his  arm  would  rattle; 
He  with  naked  fist 

Has  brained  a  knight  in  battle. 

He  marched  on  the  foe, 

And  never  counted  numbers; 

Foreign  widows  know 

The  hosts  he  sent  to  slumbers. 

As  a  street  you  scan 

That's  towered  by  the  steeple, 
So  the  head  of  Bran 

Rose  o'er  his  people. 

'Death's  my  neighbour," 
Quoth  Bran  the  blest; 

'Christian  labour 

Brings  Christian  rest. 

From  the  trunk  sever 
The  head  of  Bran, 

That  which  never 
Has  bent  to  man ! 


MEREDITH  291 

That  which  never 

To  men  has  bowed 
Shall  live  ever 

To  shame  the  shroud: 
Shall  live  ever 

To  face  the  foe; 
Sever  it,  sever, 

And  with  one  blow. 

Be  it  written, 

That  all  I  wrought 
Was  for  Britain, 

In  deed  and  thought: 
Be  it  written, 

That,  while  I  die, 
"Glory  to  Britain!" 

Is  my  last  cry. 

"Glory  to  Britain!" 

Death  echoes  me  round. 
Glory  to  Britain ! 

The  world  shall  resound. 
Glory  to  Britain! 

In  ruin  and  fall, 
Glory  to  Britain ! 

Is  heard  over  all.' 


Burn,  Sun,  down  the  sea! 
Bran  lies  low  with  thee. 

Burst,  Morn,  from  the  main! 
Bran  so  shall  rise  again. 


292  MEREDITH 

Blow,  Wind,  from  the  field ! 
Bran's  Head  is  the  Briton's  shield. 

Beam,  Star,  in  the  west ! 

Bright  burns  the  Head  of  Bran  the  Blest. 


Crimson-footed  like  the  stork, 

From  great  ruts  of  slaughter, 
Warriors  of  the  Golden  Torque 

Cross  the  lifting  water. 
Princes  seven,  enchaining  hands, 

Bear  the  live  Head  homeward. 
Lo!  it  speaks,  and  still  commands; 

Gazing  far  out  foamward. 

Fiery  words  of  lightning  sense 

Down  the  hollows  thunder; 
Forest  hostels  know  not  whence 

Comes  the  speech,  and  wonder. 
City-castles,  on  the  steep 

Where  the  faithful  Severn 
House  at  midnight,  hear  in  sleep 

Laughter  under  heaven. 

Lilies,  swimming  on  the  mere, 

In  the  castle  shadow, 
Under  draw  their  heads,  and  Fear 

Walks  the  misty  meadow; 
Tremble  not,  it  is  not  Death 

Pledging  dark  espousal : 
'Tis  the  Head  of  endless  breath, 

Challenging  carousal ! 


MORRIS  293 

Brim  the  horn !  a  health  is  drunk, 

Now,  that  shall  keep  going : 
Life  is  but  the  pebble  sunk, 

Deeds,  the  circle  growing ! 
Fill,  and  pledge  the  Head  of  Bran! 

While  his  lead  they  follow, 
Long  shall  heads  in  Britain  plan 

Speech  Death  cannot  swallow. 

George  Mercditk. 

CXIII 
THE  SLAYING  OF  THE   NIBLUNGS 

HOGNI 

YE  shall  know  that  in  Atli's  feast-hall  on  the  side 
that  joined  the  house 

Were  many  carven  doorways  whose  work  was  glori- 
ous 

With  marble  stones  and  gold-work,  and  their  doors 
of  beaten  brass : 

Lo  now,  in  the  merry  morning  how  the  story  cometh 
to  pass ! 

— While  the  echoes  of  the  trumpet  yet  fill  the 
people's  ears, 

And  Hogni  casts  by  the  war-horn,  and  his  Dwarf- 
wrought  sword  uprears, 

All  those  doors  aforesaid  open,  and  in  pour  the 
streams  of  steel, 

The  best  of  the  Eastland  champions,  the  bold  men 
of  Atli's  weal: 


294  MORRIS 

They  raise  no  cry  of  battle  nor  cast  forth  threat  of 

woe, 
And  their  helmed  and  hidden  faces  from  each  other 

none  may  know : 
Then   a   light   in   the   hall   ariseth,  and  the  fire  of 

battle  runs 
All  adown  the  front  of  the  Niblungs  in  the  face  of 

the  mighty-ones; 
All  eyes  are  set  upon   them,  hard   drawn   is   every 

breath, 
Ere  the  foremost  points  be  mingled  and  death  be 

blent  with  death. 
— All  eyes  save  the  eyes  of  Hogni;  but  e'en  as  the 

edges  meet, 
He  turneth  about  for  a  moment  to  the  gold  of  the 

kingly  seat, 
Then  aback  to  the  front  of  battle;   there   then,  as 

the  lightning-flash 
Through  the  dark  night  showeth  the  city  when  the 

clouds  of  heaven  clash, 
And   the   gazer    shrinketh   backward,    yet   he   seeth 

from  end  to  end 
The  street  and  the  merry  market,  and  the  windows 

of  his  friend, 
And   the   pavement   where    his    footsteps   yester'en 

returning  trod, 
Now  white  and  changed   and   dreadful    'neath    the 

threatening  voice  of  God; 
So  Hogni  seeth   Gudrun,  and   the   face  he  used  to 

know, 


MORRIS  295 

Unspeakable,    unchanging,    with    white    unknitted 

brow 
With    half-closed    lips    untrembling,    with   deedless 

hands  and  cold 
Laid  still  on  knees  that   stir  not,  and   the   linen's 

moveless  fold. 

Turned  Hogni  unto  the  spear-wall,  and  smote  from 

where  he  stood, 

And  hewed  with  his  sword  two-handed  as  the  axe- 
man in  a  wood : 
Before  his  sword  was  a  champion,  and  the  edges  clave 

to  the  chin, 
And  the  first  man  fell  in  the  feast-hall  of  those  that 

should  fall  therein. 
Then  man  with  man  was  dealing,  and  the  Niblung 

host  of  war 
Was  swept  by  the  leaping  icon,  as  the  rock  anigh 

the  shore 
By   the    ice-cold   waves  of   winter:    yet  a   moment 

Gunnar  stayed 
As  high  in  his  hand  unblooded  he  shook  his  awful 

blade ; 
And  he  cried:  'O  Eastland  champions,  do  ye  behold 

it  here, 
The  sword  of  the  ancient  Giuki?     Fall  on  and  have 

no  fear, 
But  slay  and  be  slain  and  be  famous,  if  your  master's 

will  it  be! 
Yet   are   we    the   blameless   Niblungs,  and   bidden 

guests  are  we : 


296  MORRIS 

So  forbear,  if  ye  wander  hood-winked,  nor  for  nothing 

slay  and  be  slain; 
For  I  know  not  what  to  tell  you  of  the  dead   that 

live  again.' 

So  he  saith  in  the  midst  of  the  foemen  with  his  war- 
flame  reared  on  high, 

But  all  about  and  around  him  goes  up  a  bitter  cry 

From  the  iron  men  of  Atli,  and  the  bickering  of  the 
steel 

Sends  a  roar  up  to  the  roof-ridge,  and  the  Niblung 
war-ranks  reel 

Behind  the  steadfast  Gunnar:  but  lo!  have  ye  seen 
the  corn, 

While  yet  men  grind  the  sickle,  by  the  wind-streak 
overborne 

When  the  sudden  rain  sweeps  downward,  and  sum- 
mer groweth  black, 

And  the  smitten  wood-side  roareth  'neath  the  driv- 
ing thunder- wrack  ? 

So  before  the  wise-heart  Hogni  shrank  the  champions 
of  the  East, 

As  his  great  voice  shook  the  timbers  in  the  hall  of 
Atli's  feast. 

There  he  smote,  and  beheld  not  the  smitten,  and  by 
nought  were  his  edges  stopped; 

He  smote,  and  the  dead  were  thrust  from  him;  a 
hand  with  its  shield  he  lopped; 

There  met  him  Alti's  marshal,  and  his  arm  at  the 
shoulder  he  shred; 

Three  swords  were  upreared  against  him  of  the  best 
of  the  kin  of  the  dead; 


MORRIS  297 

And  he  struck  off  a  head  to  the  rightward,  and  his 

sword  through  a  throat  he  thrust, 
But  the  third  stroke  fell  on  his  helm-crest,  and  he 

stooped  to  the  ruddy  dust, 
And  uprose  as  the  ancient  Giant,  and  both  his  hands 

were  wet: 
Red  then  was  the  world  to  his  eyen,  as  his  hand  to 

the  labour  he  set; 
Swords  shook  and  fell  in  his  pathway,  huge  bodies 

leapt  and  fell, 

Harsh  grided  shield  and  war-helm  like  the  tempest- 
smitten  bell, 
And   the   war-cries   ran   together,   and  no  man  his 

brother  knew, 
And   the   dead  men  loaded  the  living,   as  he  went 

the  war- wood  through; 
And   man    'gainst   man  was  huddled,  till  no  sword 

rose  to  smite, 
And  clear  stood  the  glorious  Hogni  in  an  island  of 

the  fight, 
And  there  ran  a  river  of  death  'twixt  the  Niblung 

and  his  foes, 
And  therefrom  the  terror  of  men  and  the  wrath  of 

the  Gods  arose. 

GUNNAR 

Now  fell  the  sword  of  Gunnar,  and  rose  up  red  in 

the  air, 
And  hearkened  the  song  of  the  Niblung,  as  his  voice 

rang  glad  and  clear, 


298  MORRIS 

And  rejoiced  and  leapt  at  the  Eastmen,  and  cried 

as  it  met  the  rings 

Of  a  Giant  of  King  Atli  and  a  murder-wolf  of  kings; 
But  it  quenched  its  thirst  in  his  entrails,  and  knew 

the  heart  in  his  breast, 
And  hearkened  the  praise  of  Gunnar,  and  lingered 

not  to  rest, 
But  fell  upon  Atli's  brother,  and  stayed  not  in  his 

brain; 
Then  he  fell,  and  the  King  leapt  over,  and  clave  a 

neck  atwain, 
And  leapt  o'er  the  sweep  of  a  pole-axe,  and  thrust  a 

lord  in  the  throat, 
And  King  Atli's  banner-bearer  through  shield   and 

hauberk  smote; 
Then   he    laughed    on   the   huddled   East-folk,   and 

against  their  war-shields  drave 
While  the  white  swords  tossed  about  him,  and  that 

archer's  skull  he  clave 
Whom  Atli  had  bought  in  the  Southlands  for  many 

a  pound  of  gold; 
And  the  dark-skinned  fell  upon  Gunnar,   and   over 

his  war-shield  rolled, 
And  cumbered  his  sword  for  a  season,  and  the  many 

blades  fell  on, 
And  sheared  the  cloudy  helm-crest  and  rents  in  his 

hauberk  won, 
And  the  red  blood  ran  from  Gunnar;  till  that  Giuki's 

sword  outburst, 
As  the  fire-tongue  from  the  smoulder  that  the  leafy 

heap  hath  nursed, 


MORRIS  299 

And  unshielded  smote  King  Gunnar,   and  sent  the 

Niblung  song 
Through  the  quaking  "stems  of  battle  in  the  hall  of 

Atli's  wrong: 
Then  he  rent  the  knitted  war-hedge  till  by  Hogni's 

side  he  stood, 
And  kissed  him  amidst  of  the  spear-hail,  and  their 

cheeks  were  wet  with  blood. 

Then  on  came  the  Niblung  bucklers,  and  they  drave 

the  East- folk  home, 
As  the  bows  of  the  oar-driven  long-ship  beat  off  the 

waves  in  foam: 
They  leave  their  dead  behind  them,  and  they  come 

to  the  doors  and  the  wall, 
And  a  few  last  spears  from  the  fleeing  amidst  their 

shield-hedge  fall : 
But  the  doors  clash  to  in  their  faces,  as  the  fleeing 

rout  they  drive, 

And  fain  would  follow  after;  and  none  is  left  alive 
In  the  feast-hall  of  King  Atli.  save  those  fishes  of 

the  net, 
And  the  white  and  silent  woman  above  the  slaughter 

set. 

Then  biddeth   the   heart-wise    Hogni,  and   men   to 

the  windows  climb, 
And  uplift  the  war-grey  corpses,   dead  drift  of  the 

stormy  time, 
And  cast  them  adown  to  their  people:  thence  they 

come  aback  and  say 
That  scarce  shall  ye  see  the  houses,  and  no  whit  the 

wheel -worn  way 


300  MORRIS 

For  the  spears  and  shields  of  the  Eastlands  that  the 

merchant  city  throng; 
And  back  to  the  Niblung  burg-gate  the  way  seemed 

weary-long. 

Yet  passeth  hour  on  hour,  and  the  doors  they  watch 

and  ward 

But  a  long  while  hear  no  mail-clash,  nor  the  ring- 
ing of  the  sword; 
Then  droop  the  Niblung  children,  and  their  wounds 

are  waxen  chill, 
And  they  think  of  the  burg  by  the  river,   and   the 

builded  holy  hill, 
And  their  eyes  are  set  on  Gudrun  as  of  men  who 

would  beseech; 
But  unlearned  are  they  in  craving,   and  know  not 

dastard's  speech. 
Then  doth  Giuki's  first-begotten  a  deed  most   fair 

to  be  told, 
For  his  fair  harp  Gunnar  taketh,  and  the  warp   of 

silver  and  gold; 
With  the  hand  of  a  cunning  harper  he  dealeth  with 

the  strings, 
And  his   voice   in  their  midst  goeth  upward,  as  of 

ancient  days  he  sings, 
Ot  the  days  before  the  Niblungs,  and  the  days  that 

shall  be  yet; 
Till  the  hour  of  toil  and  smiting  the  warrior  hearts 

forget, 
Nor  hear  the  gathering  foemen,  nor   the   sound   of 

swords  aloof : 


MORRIS  301 

Then  clear  the  song  of  Gunnar  goes  up  to  the  dusky 

roof, 
And  the  coming  spear-host  tarries,  and  the  bearers 

of  the  woe 
Through  the  cloisters  of  King   Atli  with   lingering 

footsteps  go. 

But  Hogni  looketh  on  Gudrun,   and  no  change  in 

her  face  he  sees,  . 
And  no  stir  in  her  folded  linen  and   the   deedless 

hands  on  her  knees: 
Then  from  Gunnar 's  side  he  hasteheth;  and  lo!  the 

open  door, 
And  a  foeman  treadeth  the  pavement,  and  his  lips 

are  on  Atli's  floor, 
For   Hogni    is  death    in    the    doorway:    then    the 

Niblungs  turn  on  the  foe, 
And  the  hosts  are  mingled  together,  and  blow  cries 

out  on  blow. 

GUDRUN 

Still  the  song  goeth  up  from  Gunnar,  though  his 
harp  to  earth  be  laid ; 

But  he  fighteth  exceeding  wisely,  and  is  many  a 
warrior's  aid, 

And  he  shieldeth  and  delivereth,  and  his  eyes  search 
through  the  hall, 

And  woe  is  he  for  his  fellows,as  his  battle-brethren  fall; 

For  the  turmoil  hideth  little  from  that  glorious  folk- 
king's  eyes, 

And  o'er  all  he  beholdeth  Gudrun,  and  his  soul  is 
waxen  wise, 


302  MORRIS 

And  he  saith:  'We  shall  look  on  Sigurd,  and   Sig- 

mund  of  old  days, 
And  see  the  boughs  of  the  Branstock  o'er  the  ancient 

Volsung's  praise.' 

Woe's  me  for  the  wrath  of  Hogni!     From  the  door 

he  giveth  aback 
That  the  Eastland  slayers  may  enter  to  the  murder 

and  the  wrack : 
Then  he  rageth  and  driveth  the  battle  to  the  golden 

kingly  seat, 
And  the  last  of   the   foes   he   slayeth   by   Gudrun's 

very  feet, 
That  the  red  blood  splasheth  her  raiment;  and  his 

own  blood  therewithal 
He  casteth  aloft  before  her,  and  the  drops  on  her 

white  hands  fall : 
But  nought  she  seeth  or  heedeth,  and  again  he  turns 

to  fight, 
Nor  heedeth  stroke  nor  wounding  so  he  a  foe  may 

smite : 
Then  the  battle  opens  before  him,  and  the  Niblungs 

draw  to  his  side; 
As  death  in  the  world  first  fashioned,  through   the 

feast-hall  doth  he  stride. 
And    so    once    more   do    the    Niblungs   sweep   that 

murder-flood  of  men 
From  the  hall  of  toils  and  treason,  and   the   doors 

swing  to  again. 
Then  again  is  there  peace   for  a   little   within   the 

fateful  fold; 


MORRIS  303 

But  the   Niblungs  look  about  them,  and  but  few 

folk  they  behold 
Upright  on  their  feet  for  the  battle :  now  they  climb 

aloft  no  more, 
Nor    cast  the  dead   from  the  windows;    but  they 

raise  a  rampart  of  war, 
And  its  stones  are  the  fallen  East-folk,  and  no  lowly 

wall  is  that. 

Therein  was  Gunnar  the  mighty:  on  the  shields  of 

men  he  sat, 
And  the  sons  of  his  people  hearkened,  for  his  hand 

through  the  harp-strings  ran, 
And  he  sang  in  the  hall  of  his  foeman  of  the  Gods 

and  the  making  of  man, 
And  how  season  was  sundered   from  season  in  the 

days  of  the  fashioning, 
And  became  the  Summer  and  Autumn,  and  became 

the  Winter  and  Spring; 
He  sang  of  men's  hunger  and  labour,  and  their  love 

and  their  breeding  of  broil, 
And  their  hope  that  is  fostered  of  famine,  and  their 

rest  that  is  fashioned  of  toil: 
Fame  then  and  the  sword  he  sang  of,  and  the  hour 

of  the  hardy  and  wise, 
When  the  last  of  the  living   shall   perish,  and   the 

first  of  the  dead  shall  nrise, 
And  the  torch  shall  be  lit  in  the  daylight,  and  God 

unto  man  shall  pray, 
And  the  he.irt  shall  cry   out   for   the   hand   in   the 

fight  of  the  uttermost  day. 


304  MORRIS 

So  he  sang,  and  beheld  not  Gudrun,  save  as  long 

ago  he  saw 

His  sister,  the  little  maiden  of  the  face  without  a  flaw : 
But  wearily  Hogni  beheld  her,  and  no  change   in 

her  face  there  was, 
And  long  thereon  gazed  Hogni,  and  set  his  brows 

as  the  brass, 
Though   the   hands  of  the   King  were  weary,  and 

weak  his  knees  were  grown, 
.    And  he  felt  as  a  man  unholpen  in  a  waste   land 

wending  alone. 

THE   SONS   OF  GIUKI 

Now  the  noon  was  long  passed  over  when  again  the 

rumour  arose, 
And  through  the  doors  cast  open  flowed  in  the  river 

of  foes : 
They  flooded  the  hall   of   the   murder,   and  surged 

round  that  rampart  of  dead; 
No  war-duke  ran  before  them,  no  lord  to  the  onset 

led, 
But  the  thralls  shot   spears  at  adventure,  and  shot 

out  shafts  from  afar, 
Till  the  misty  hall  was  blinded  with  the  bitter  drift 

of  war: 
Few  and  faint  were  the  Niblung  children,  and  their 

wounds  were  waxen  acold, 
And  they  saw  the  Hell-gates  open  as  they  stood  in 

their  grimly  hold : 
Yet  thrice  stormed  out  King  Hogni,  thrice  stormed 

out  Gunnar  the  King, 


MORRIS  305 

Thrice  fell  they  aback  yet  living  to   the  heart  of 

the  fated  ring; 
And  they  looked  and  their  band  was  little,  and  no 

man  but  was  wounded  sore, 
And  the  hall  seemed  growing  greater,  such  hosts  of 

foes  it  bore, 

So  tossed  the  iron  harvest  from  wall  to  gilded  wall; 
And   they   looked   and   the   white-clad   Gudrun   sat 

silent  over  all. 

Then  the  churls  and  thralls  of  the  Eastland  howled 

out  as  wolves  accurst, 
But  oft  gaped  the  Niblungs  voiceless,  for  they  choked 

with  anger  and  thirst; 
And  the  hall  grew  hot  as  a  furnace,  and  men  drank 

their  flowing  blood, 
Men  laughed  and  gnawed  on  their  shield-rims,  men 

knew  not  where  they  stood, 
And  saw  not  what  was  before  them;  as  in  the  dark 

men  smote, 
Men  died  heart-broken,  unsmitten;  men  wept  with 

the  cry  in  the  throat, 
Men   lived   on   full   of    war-shafts,    men   cast   their 

shields  aside 
And  caught  the  spears  to  their  bosoms;  men  rushed 

with  none  beside, 
And  fell  unarmed  on  the  foemen,  and  tore  and  slew 

in  death : 
And  still  down  rained  the  arrows  as  the  rain  across 

the  heath; 
Still  proud  o'er  all  the  turmoil  stood  the  Kings  of 

Giuki  born, 


306  MORRIS 

Nor  knit  were  the  brows  of  Gunnar,  nor  his  song- 
speech  overworn; 

But  Hogni's  mouth  kept  silence,  and  oft  his  heart 
went  forth 

To  the  long,  long  day  of  the  darkness,  and  the  end 
of  worldly  worth. 

Loud  rose  the  roar  of  the  East-folk,  and  the  end  was 

coming  at  last : 
Now  the  foremost  locked  their  shield-rims  and  the 

hindmost  over  them  cast, 
And  nigher  they  drew  and   nigher,  and  their   fear 

was  fading  away, 
For  every  man  of  the  Niblungs  on  the  shaft-strewn 

pavement  lay, 
Save  Gunnar  the  King  and  Hogni :  still  the  glorious 

King  up-bore 
The  cloudy  shield  of  the  Niblungs  set  full  of  shafts 

of  war; 
But  Hogni's  hands  had  fainted,  and  his  shield  had 

sunk  adown, 

So  thick  with  the  Eastland  spearwood  was  that  ram- 
part of  renown; 
And  hacked  and  dull  were  the  edges  that  had  rent 

the  wall  of  foes : 
Yet  he  stood  upright  by  Gunnar  before  that  shielded 

close. 
Nor  looked  on  the  foeman's  faces  as  their, wild  eyes 

drew  anear, 
And  their  faltering   shield-rims   clattered  with   the 

remnant  of  their  fear; 


MORRIS  307 

But   he   gazed   on   the    Niblung   woman,    and   the 

daughter  of  his  folk, 
Who  sat  o'er  all  unchanging  ere  the  war-cloud  over 

them  broke. 

Now  nothing  might  men  hearken  in  the  house  of 

Atli's  weal, 
Save  the  feet  slow  tramping  onward,  and  the  rattling 

of  the  steel, 
And  the  song  of  the  glorious  Gunnar,  that  rang  as 

clearly  now 

As  the  speckled  storm-cock  singeth  from  the  scant- 
leaved  hawthorn-bough, 
When  the  sun  is  dusking  over  and  the  March  snow 

pelts  the  land. 
There    stood   the   mighty   Gunnar  with   sword   and 

shield  in  hand, 
There  stood  the  shieldless  Hogni  with  set  unangry 

eyes, 
And  watched  the  wall  of  war-shields  o'er  the  dead 

men's  rampart  rise, 
And   the   white   blades   flickering   nigher,    and   the 

quavering  points  of  war. 
Then  the  heavy  air  of  the  feast-hall  was  rent  with  a 

fearful  roar, 
And  the  turmoil  came  and  the  tangle,  as  the  wall 

together  ran : 
Uut  aloft  yet  towered  the  Niblungs,  and  man  toppled 

over  man, 
And   leapt  and   struggled   to   tear  them;  as  whiles 

amidst  the  sea 


308  AUSTIN 

The  doomed  ship  strives  its  utmost  with  mid-ocean's 

mastery, 
And    the    tall    masts  whip   the   cordage,  while   the 

welter  whirls  and  leaps, 
And  they  rise  and  reel  and  waver,   and  sink   amid 

the  deeps : 

So  before  the  little-hearted  in  King  Atli's  murder-hall 
Did  the  glorious  sons  of  Giuki  'neath  the  shielded 

onrush  fall : 
Sore  wounded,  bound  and  helpless,  but  living  yet, 

they  lie 
Till  the  afternoon  and  the  even  in  the  first  of  night 

shall  die. 

William  Morris. 

CXIV 

IS  LIFE  WORTH   LIVING 

Is  life  worth  living?     Yes,  so  long 

As  Spring  revives  the  year, 
And  hails  us  with  the  cuckoo's  song, 

To  show  that  she  is  here; 
So  long  as  May  of  April  takes, 

In  smiles  and  tears,  farewell, 
And  windflowers  dapple  all  the  brakes, 

And  primroses  the  dell; 
While  children  in  the  woodlands  yet 

Adorn  their  little  laps 
With  ladysmock  and  violet, 

And  daisy-chain  their  caps; 
While  over  orchard  daffodils 

Cloud-shadows  float  and  fleet, 


AUSTIN  309 

And  ousel  pipes  and  laverock  trills, 

And  young  lambs  buck  and  bleat; 
So  long  as  that  which  bursts  the  bud 

And  swells  and  tunes  the  rill 
Makes  springtime  in  the  maiden's  blood, 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 

Life  not  worth  living!     Come  with  me, 

Now  that,  through  vanishing  veil, 
Shimmers  the  dew  on  lawn  and  lea, 

And  milk  foams  in  the  pail; 
Now  that  June's  sweltering  sunlight  bathes 

With  sweat  the  striplings  lithe, 
As  fall  the  long  straight  scented  swathes 

Over  the  crescent  scythe; 
Now  that  the  throstle  never  stops 

His  self-sufficing  strain, 
And  woodbine-trails  festoon  the  copse, 

And  eglantine  the  lane; 
Now  rustic  labour  seems  as  sweet 

As  leisure,  and  blithe  herds 
Wend  homeward  with  unweary  feet, 

Carolling  like  the  birds; 
Now  all,  except  the  lover's  vow, 

And  nightingale,  is  still; 
Here,  in  the  twilight  hour,  allow, 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 

When  Summer,  lingering  half-forlorn, 

On  Autumn  loves  to  lean, 
And  fields  of  slowly  yellowing  corn 

Are  girt  by  woods  still  green; 


310  AUSTIN 

When  hazel-nuts  wax  brown  and  plump, 

And  apples  rosy-red, 
And  the  owlet  hoots  from  hollow  stump, 

And  the  dormouse  makes  its  bed; 
When  crammed  are  all  the  granary  floors, 

And  the  Hunter's  moon  is  bright, 
And  life  again  is  sweet  indoors, 

And  logs  again  alight; 
Ay,  even  when  the  houseless  wind 

Waileth  through  cleft  and  chink, 
And  in  the  twilight  maids  grow  kind, 

And  jugs  are  filled  and  clink; 
When  children  clasp  their  hands  and  pray 

'Be  done  Thy  Heavenly  will ! ' 
Who  doth  not  lift  his  voice,  and  say, 

'Life  is  worth  living  still '? 

Is  life  worth  living?     Yes,  so  long 

As  there  is  wrong  to  right, 
Wail  of  the  weak  against  the  strong, 

Or  tyranny  to  fight; 
Long  as  there  lingers  gloom  to  chase, 

Or  streaming  tear  to  dry, 
One  kindred  woe,  one  sorrowing  face 

That  smiles  as  we  draw  nigh; 
Long  as  at  tale  of  anguish  swells 

The  heart,  and  lids  grow  wet, 
And  at  the  sound  of  Christmas  bells 

We  pardon  and  forget; 
So  long  as  Faith  with  Freedom  reigns, 

And  loyal  Hope  survives, 


LYALL  311 

And  gracious  Charity  remains 

To  leaven  lowly  lives; 
While  there  is  one  untrodden  tract 

For  Intellect  or  Will, 
And  men  are  free  to  think  and  act 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 

Not  care  to  live  while  English  homes 

Nestle  in  English  trees, 
And  England's  Trident-Sceptre  roams 

Her  territorial  seas ! 
Not  live  while  English  songs  are  sung 

Wherever  blows  the  wind, 
And  England's  laws  and  England's  tongue 

Enfranchise  half  mankind ! 
So  long  as  in  Pacific  main, 

Or  on  Atlantic  strand, 
Our  kin  transmit  the  parent  strain, 

And  love  the  Mother-land; 
So  long  as  flashes  English  steel, 

And  English  trumpets  shrill, 
He  is  dead  already  who  cloth  not  feel 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 


Austin. 


cxv 
THEOLOGY   IN    EXTREMIS 

OPT  in  the  pleasant  summer  years, 
Reading  the  tiles  of  days  bygone, 

I  have  mused  on  the  story  of  human  tears, 
All  that  man  unto  man  has  done, 


312  LYALL 

Massacre,  torture,  and  black  despair; 
Reading  it  all  in  my  easy-chair. 

Passionate  prayer  for  a  minute's  life; 

Tortured  crying  for  death  as  rest; 
Husband  pleading  for  child  or  wife, 

Pitiless  stroke  upon  tender  breast. 
Was  it  all  real  as  that  I  lay  there 
Lazily  stretched  on  my  easy-chair? 

Could  I  believe  in  those  hard  old  times, 

Here  in  this  safe  luxurious  age  ? 
Were  the  horrors  invented  to  season  rhymes, 

Or  truly  is  man  so  fierce  in  his  rage  ? 
What  could  I  suffer,  and  what  could  I  dare  ? 
I  who  was  bred  to  that  easy-chair. 

They  were  my  fathers,  the  men  of  yore, 
Little  they  recked  of  a  cruel  death; 

They  would  dip  their  hands  in  a  heretic's  gore, 
They  stood  and  burnt  for  a  rule  of  faith. 

What  would  I  burn  for,  and  whom  not  spare  ? 

I,  who  had  faith  in  an  easy-chair. 

Now  do  I  see  old  tales  are  true, 
Here  in  the  clutch  of  a  savage  foe; 

Now  shall  I  know  what  my  fathers  knew, 
Bodily  anguish  and  bitter  woe, 

Naked  and  bound  in  the  strong  sun's  glare, 

Far  from  my  civilised  easy-chair. 

Now  have  I  tasted  and  understood 
That  old-world  feeling  of  mortal  hate; 


LYALL  313 

For  the  eyes  all  round  us  are  hot  with  blood; 
They  will  kill  us  coolly — they  do  but  wait; 
While  I,  I  would  sell  ten  lives,  at  least, 
For  one  fair  stroke  at  that  devilish  priest. 

Just  in  return  for  the  kick  he  gave, 

Bidding  me  call  on  the  prophet's  name; 

Even  a  dog  by  this  may  save 

Skin  from  the  knife  and  soul  from  the  flame ; 

My  soul !  if  he  can  let  the  prophet  burn  it, 

But  life  is  sweet  if  a  word  may  earn  it. 

A  bullock's  death,  and  at  thirty  years! 

Just  one  phrase,  and  a  man  gets  off  it; 
Look  at  that  mongrel  clerk  in  his  tears 

Whining  aloud  the  name  of  the  prophet; 
Only  a  formula  easy  to  patter, 
And,  God  Almighty,  what  can  it  matter? 

'Matter  enough,'  will  my  comrade  say 
Praying  aloud  here  close  at  my  side, 

'Whether  you  mourn  in  despair  alway, 
Cursed  for  ever  by  Christ  denied; 

Or  whether  you  suffer  a  minute's  pain 

All  the  reward  of  Heaven  to  gain.' 

Not  for  a  moment  faltereth  he, 

Sure  of  the  promise  and  pardon  of  sin; 

Thus  did  the  martyrs  die,  I  see, 
Little  to  lose  and  mucklc  to  win; 

Death  means  Heaven,  he  longs  to  receive  it, 

But  whit  shall  I  do  if  I  don't  believe  it? 


314  LYALL 

Life  is  pleasant,  and  friends  may  be  nigh, 
Fain  would  I  speak  one  word  and  be  spared; 

Yet  I  could  be  silent  and  cheerfully  die, 
If  I  were  only  sure  God  cared; 

If  I  had  faith,  and  were  only  certain 

That  light  is  behind  that  terrible  curtain. 

But  what  if  He  listeth  nothing  at  all, 

Of  words  a  poor  wretch  in  his  terror  may  say? 

That  mighty  God  who  created  all 

To  labour  and  live  their  appointed  day; 

Who  stoops  not  either  to  bless  or  ban, 

Weaving  the  woof  of  an  endless  plan. 

He  is  the  Reaper,  and  binds  the  sheaf, 
Shall  not  the  season  its  order  keep? 

Can  it  be  changed  by  a  man's  belief? 
Millions  of  harvests  still  to  reap; 

Will  God  reward,  if  I  die  for  a  creed, 

Or  will  He  but  pity,  and  sow  more  seed? 

Surely  He  pities  who  made  the  brain, 

When  breaks  that  mirror  of  memories  sweet, 

When  the  hard  blow  falleth,  and  never  again 
Nerve  shall  quiver  nor  pulse  shall  beat; 

Bitter  the  vision  of  vanishing  joys; 

Surely  He  pities  when  man  destroys. 

Here  stand  I  on  the  ocean's  brink, 

Who  hath  brought  news  of  the  further  shore  ? 

How  shall  I  cross  it?  Sail  or  sink, 
One  thing  is  sure,  I  return  no  more; 

Shall  I  find  haven,  or  aye  shall  I  be 

Tossed  in  the  depths  of  a  shoreless  sea? 


LYALL  315 

They  tell  fair  tales  of  a  far-off  land, 
Of  love  rekindled,  of  forms  renewed; 

There  may  I  only  touch  one  hand 
Here  life's  ruin  will  little  be  rued; 

But  the  hand  I  have  pressed  and  the  voice  I  have 
heard, 

To  lose  them  for  ever,  and  all  for  a  word ! 

Now  do  I  feel  that  my  heart  must  break 
All  for  one  glimpse  of  a  woman's  face; 

Swiftly  the  slumbering  memories  wake 
Odour  and  shadow  of  hour  and  place ; 

One  bright  ray  through  the  darkening  past 

Leaps  from  the  lamp  as  it  brightens  last, 

Showing  me  summer  in  western  land 

Now,  as  the  cool  breeze  murmureth 
In  leaf  and  flower — And  here  I  stand 

In  this  plain  all  bare  save  the  shadow  of  death; 
Leaving  my  life  in  its  full  noonday, 
And  no  one  to  know  why  I  Hung  it  away. 

Why?    Am  I  bidding  for  glory's  roll? 

I  shall  be  murdered  and  clean  forgot; 
Is  it  a  bargain  to  save  my  soul? 

God,  whom  I  trust  in,  bargains  not; 
Yet  for  the  honour  of  Knglish  race, 
May  I  not  live  or  endure  disgrace. 

Ay,  but  the  word,  if  I  could  have  said  it, 

I  by  no  terrors  of  hell  pcrplext; 
Hard  to  be  silent  and  have  no  credit 

From  man  in  this  world,  or  reward  in  the  next; 


316  SWINBURNE 

None  to  bear  witness  and  reckon  the  cost 

Of  the  name  that  is  saved  by  the  life  that  is  lost. 

I  must  be  gone  to  the  crowd  untold 

Of  men  by  the  cause  which  they  served  unknown, 
Who  moulder  in  myriad  graves  of  old; 

Never  a  story  and  never  a  stone 
Tells  of  the  martyrs  who  die  like  me, 

Just  for  the  pride  of  the  old  countree. 

Lyall. 

CXVI 

THE   OBLATION 

ASK  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet; 
All  I  can  give  you  I  give. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  were  it  more, 
More  would  be  laid  at  your  feet : 
Love  that  should  help  you  to  live, 
Song  that  should  spur  you  to  soar. 

All  things  were  nothing  to  give 
Once  to  have  sense  of  you  more, 

Touch  you  and  taste  of  you,  sweet, 
Think  you  and  breathe  you  and  live, 
Swept  of  your  wings  as  they  soar, 
Trodden  by  chance  of  your  feet. 

I  that  have  love  and  no  more 
Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet : 

He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give; 
He  that  hath  wings,  let  him  soar; 
Mine  is  the  heart  at  your  feet 
Here,  that  must  love  you  to  live. 


SWINBURNE  317 

cxvn 
ENGLAND 

ENGLAND,  queen  of  the  waves,  whose  green  inviolate 

girdle  enrings  thee  round, 
Mother  fair  as  the  morning,  where  is  now  the  place 

of  thy  foemen  found? 
Still  the  sea  that   salutes  us   free   proclaims  them 

stricken,  acclaims  thee  crowned. 
Time  may  change,  and  the  skies  grow  strange  with 

signs  of  treason,  and  fraud,  and  fear: 
Foes  in  union  of  strange  communion  may  rise  against 

thee  from  far  and  near : 
Sloth  and  greed  on  thy  strength  may  feed  as  cankers 

waxing  from  year  to  year. 

Yet,  though  treason  and  fierce  unreason  should 
league  and  lie  and  defame  and  smite, 

We  that  know  thee,  how  far  below  thee  the  hatred 
burns  of  the  sons  of  night, 

We  that  love  thee,  behold  above  thee  the  witness 
written  of  life  in  light. 

Life  that  shines  from  thee  shows  forth  signs  that 
none  may  read  not  by  eyeless  foes: 

Hate,  born  blind,  in  his  abject  mind  grows  hopeful 
now  but  as  madness  grows: 

Love,  born  wise,  with  exultant  eyes  adores  thy  glory, 
beholds  and  glows. 

Truth  is  in  thee,  and  none  may  win  thee  to  lie,  for- 
saking the  face  of  truth: 


318  SWINBURNE 

Freedom  lives  by  the   grace   she  gives  thee,  born 

again  from  thy  deathless  youth : 
Faith  should  fail,  and  the  world  turn  pale,  wert  thou 

the  prey  of  the  serpent's  tooth. 

Greed  and  fraud,  unabashed,  unawed,  may  strive  to 

sting  thee  at  heel  in  vain; 
Craft  and  fear  and  mistrust  may  leer  and  mourn  and 

murmur  and  plead  and  plain : 
Thou  art  thou :  and  thy  sunbright  brow  is  hers  that 

blasted  the  strength  of  Spain. 

Mother,  mother  beloved,  none  other  could  claim  in 

place  of  thee  England's  place: 
Earth  bears  none  that  beholds  the  sun  so  pure   of 

record,  so  clothed  with  grace : 
Dear  our  mother,  nor  son  nor  brother  is  thine,  as 

strong  or  as  fair  of  face, 
How  shalt  thou  be  abased?  or  how  shalt   fear   take 

hold  of  thy  heart?  of  thine, 
England,  maiden  immortal,  laden  with  charge  of  life 

and  with  hopes  divine? 
Earth  shall  wither,  when  eyes  turned  hither  behold 

not  light  in  her  darkness  shine. 

England,   none  that  is  born  thy  son,  and   lives  by 

grace  of  thy  glory,  free, 
Lives  and  yearns  not  at  heart  and  burns  with  hope 

to  serve  as  he  worships  thee; 
None   may   sing   thee:    the   sea-wind's  wing  beats 

down  our  songs  as  it  hails  the  sea. 


SWINBURNE  319 

CXVIII 

A  JACOBITE   IN    EXILE 

THE  weary  day  rins  down  and  dies, 

The  weary  night  wears  through : 
And  never  an  hour  is  fair  wi'  flower, 

And  never  a  flower  wi'  dew. 

I  would  the  day  were  night  for  me, 

I  would  the  night  were  day : 
For  then  would  I  stand  in  my  ain  fair  land, 

As  now  in  dreams  I  may. 

O  lordly  flow  the  Loire  and  Seine, 

And  loud  the  dark  Durance : 
But  bonnier  shine  the  braes  of  Tyne 

Than  a'  the  fields  of  France ; 
And  the  waves  of  Till  that  speak  sae  still 

Gleam  goodlier  where  they  glance. 

O  weel  were  they  that  fell  fighting 

On  dark  Drumossie's  day : 
They  keep  their  hame  ayont  the  faem 

And  we  die  far  away. 

O  sound  they  sleep,  and  saft,  and  deep, 

But  night  and  day  wake  we; 
And  ever  between  the  sea  banks  green 

Sounds  loud  the  sundering  sea. 

And  ill  we  sleep,  sae  sair  we  weep 

But  sweet  and  fast  sleep  they : 
And  the  mool  that  haps  them  roun'  and  laps  them 

Is  e'en  their  country's  clay; 


320  SWINBURNE 

But  the  land  we  tread  that  are  not  dead 
Is  strange  as  night  by  day. 

Strange  as  night  in  a  strange  man's  sight, 

Though  fair  as  dawn  it  be : 
For  what  is  here  that  a  stranger's  cheer 

Should  yet  wax  blithe  to  see? 

The  hills  stand  steep,  the  dells  lie  deep, 

The  fields  are  green  and  gold  : 
The  hill-streams  sing,  and  the  hill-sides  ring, 

As  ours  at  home  of  old. 

But  hills  and  flowers  are  nane  of  ours, 

And  ours  are  over  sea : 
And  the  kind  strange  land  whereon  we  stand, 

It  wotsna  what  were  we 
Or  ever  we  came,  wi'  scathe  and  shame, 

To  try  what  end  might  be. 

Scathe  and  shame,  and  a  waefu'  name, 

And  a  weary  time  and  strange, 
Have  they  that  seeing  a  weird  for  dreeing 

Can  die,  and  cannot  change. 

Shame  and  scorn  may  we  thole  that  mourn, 

Though  sair  be  they  to  dree : 
But  ill  may  we  bide  the  thoughts  we  hide, 

Mair  keen  than  wind  and  sea. 

Ill  may  we  thole  the  night's  watches, 

And  ill  the  weary  day : 
And  the  dreams  that  keep  the  gates  of  sleep, 

A  waefu'  gift  gie  they; 
For  the  songs  they  sing  us,  the  sights  they  bring  us, 

The  morn  blaws  all  away. 


SWINBURNE  321 

On  Aikenshaw  the  sun  blinks  braw, 

The  burn  rins  blithe  and  fain: 
There's  nought  wi'  me  I  wadna  gie 

To  look  thereon  again. 

On  Keilder-side  the  wind  blaws  wide: 

There  sounds  nae  hunting-horn 
That  rings  sae  sweet  as  the  winds  that  beat 

Round  banks  where  Tyne  is  born. 

The  Wansbeck  sings  with  all  her  springs 

The  bents  and  braes  give  ear; 
But  the  wood  that  rings  wi'  the  sang  she  sings 

I  may  not  see  nor  hear; 
For  far  and  far  thae  blithe  burns  are, 

And  strange  is  a'  thing  near. 

The  light  there  lightens,  the  day  there  brightens, 

The  loud  wind  there  lives  free : 
Nae  light  comes  nigh  me  or  wind  blaws  by  me 

That  I  wad  hear  or  see. 

But  O  gin  I  were  there  again, 

Afar  ayont  the  faem, 
Cauld  and  dead  in  the  sweet  saft  bed 

That  haps  my  sires  at  hame ! 

We'll  see  nae  mair  the  sea-banks  fair, 

And  the  sweet  grey  gleaming  sky, 
And  the  lordly  strand  of  Northumberland, 

And  the  goodly  towers  thereby ; 
And  none  shall  know  but  the  winds  that  blow 

The  graves  wherein  we  lie. 


322  BRET   HARTE 

cxix 
THE   REVEILLE 

HARK  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum; 
Lo!  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum, — 
Saying,  'Come, 
Freemen,  come ! 

Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,'  said  the  quick  alarm- 
ing drum. 

'Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel: 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come? 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  'Come! 

Death    shall    reap    the    braver    harvest,'    said   the 
solemn-sounding  drum. 

'But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

Wrhat  of  profit  springs  therefrom? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become?  ' 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  'Come! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,'  said  the  Yankee- 
answering  drum. 

'What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 
Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 


BRET   HARTE  323 

When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?  ' 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  'Come! 

Better  there  in  death  united,  than  in  life  a  recreant, 
—Come ! ' 

Thus  they  answered, — hoping,  fearing, 

Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  '  My  chosen  people,  come ! ' 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo !  was  dumb, 

For  the  great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing,  answered, 
'Lord,  we  come! ' 

OCX 

WHAT  THE   BULLET  SANG 

O  JOY  of  creation 
To  be ! 

0  rapture  to  fly 

And  be  free ! 
Be  the  battle  lost  or  won 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun, 

1  shall  find  my  love — the  one 

Born  for  me ! 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands, 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  o'erthrown; 


324  DOBSON 


I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  god-like  front  and  grace; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space 
All  my  own ! 

It  is  he — O  my  love ! 

So  bold! 
It  is  I — All  thy  love 

Foretold ! 

It  is  I.     O  love !  what  bliss ! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss? 
O  sweetheart !  what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  cold? 

Bret  Harte. 


CXXI 

A  BALLAD   OF  THE  ARMADA 

KING  Philip  had  vaunted  his  claims; 

He  had  sworn  for  a  year  he  would  sack  us ; 
With  an  army  of  heathenish  names 

He  was  coming  to  fagot  and  stack  us; 

Like  the  thieves  of  the  sea  he  would  track  us, 
And  shatter  our  ships  on  the  main; 

But  we  had  bold  Neptune  to  back  us — 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

His  carackes  were  christened  of  dames 
To  the  kirtles  whereof  he  would  tack  us; 

With  his  saints  and  his  gilded  stern-frames 
He  had  thought  like  an  egg-shell  to  crack  us; 


LANG  325 

Now  Howard  may  get  to  his  Flaccus, 
And  Drake  to  his  Devon  again, 

And  Hawkins  bowl  rubbers  to  Bacchus — 
For  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

Let  his  Majesty  hang  to  St.  James 

The  axe  that  he  whetted  to  hack  us; 
He  must  play  at  some  lustier  games 

Or  at  sea  he  can  hope  to  out-thwack  us; 

To  his  mines  of  Peru  he  would  pack  us 
To  tug  at  his  bullet  and  chain; 

Alas !  that  his  Greatness  should  lack  us ! — 
But  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

ENVOY 

GLORIANA  ! — the  Don  may  attack  us 
Whenever  his  stomach  be  fain; 

He  must  reach  us  before  he  can  rack  us,  ... 

And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain? 

Dobson. 

CXXII 

THE  WHITE    PACHA 

VAIN  is  the  dream !     However  Hope  may  rave, 
He  perished  with  the  folk  he  could  not  save, 
And  though  none  surely  told  us  he  is  dead, 
And  though  perchance  another  in  his  stead, 
Another,  not  less  brave,  when  all  was  done, 
Had  fled  unto  the  southward  and  the  sun, 
Had  urged  a  way  by  force,  or  won  by  guile 
To  streams  remotest  of  the  secret  Nile, 


326  STEVENSON 

Had  raised  an  army  of  the  Desert  men, 
And,  waiting  for  his  hour,  had  turned  again 
And  fallen  on  that  False  Prophet,  yet  we  know 
GORDON  is  dead,  and  these  things  are  not  so ! 
Nay,  not  for  England's  cause,  nor  to  restore 
Her  trampled  flag — for  he  loved  Honour  more — 
Nay,  not  for  Life,  Revenge,  or  Victory, 
Would  he  have  fled,  whose  hour  had  dawned  to  die. 
He  will  not  come  again,  whate'er  our  need, 
He  will  not  come,  who  is  happy,  being  freed 
From  the  deathly  flesh  and  perishable  things, 
And  lies  of  statesmen  and  rewards  of  kings. 
Nay,  somewhere  by  the  sacred  River's  shore 
He  sleeps  like  those  who  shall  return  no  more, 
No  more  return  for  all  the  prayers  of  men — 
Arthur  and  Charles — they  never  come  again ! 
They  shall  not  wake,  though  fair  the  vision  seem : 
Whate'er  sick  Hope  may  whisper,  vain  the  dream! 

Lang. 

CXXIII 

MOTHER  AND   SON 

IT  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain, 

Not,  mother,  yours  to  weep, 

Though  nevermore  your  son  again 

Shall  to  your  bosom  creep, 

Though  nevermore  again  you  watch  your  baby  sleep. 

Though  in  the  greener  paths  of  earth 

Mother  and  child,  no  more 

We  wander;  and  no  more  the  birth 


STEVENSON  327 

Of  me  whom  once  you  bore, 

Seems  still  the  brave  reward  that  once  it  seemed  of 
yore; 

Though  as  all  passes,  day  and  night, 

The  seasons  and  the  years, 

From  you,  O  mother,  this  delight, 

This  also  disappears — 

Some  profit  yet  survives  of  all  your  pangs  and  tears. 

The  child,  the  seed,  the  grain  of  corn, 
The  acorn  on  the  hill, 
Each  for  some  separate  end  is  born 
In  season  fit,  and  still 

Each   must  in  strength  arise  to  work  the  Almighty 
will. 

So  from  the  hearth  the  children  flee, 
By  that  Almighty  hand 
Austerely  led ;  so  one  by  sea 
Goes  forth,  and  one  by  land; 

Nor  aught  of  all  men's  sons  escapes  from  that  com- 
mand. 

So  from  the  sally  each  obeys 
The  unseen  Almighty  nod; 
So  till  the  ending  all  their  ways 
Blind-folded  loth  have  trod: 

Nor  knew  their  task  at  all,   but  were   the   tools   of 
God. 

And  as  the  fervent  smith  of  yore 
Beat  out  the  glowing  blade, 
Nor  wielded  in  the  front  of  war 


328  BEECHING 

The  weapons  that  he  made, 

But  in  the  tower   at   home   still   plied   his   ringing 
trade; 

So  like  a  sword  the  son  shall  roam 

On  nobler  missions  sent; 

And  as  the  smith  remained  at  home 

In  peaceful  turret  pent, 

So  sits  the  while  at  home  the  mother  well  content. 

Stevenson. 

CXXTV 

PRAYERS 

GOD  who  created  me 

Nimble  and  light  of  limb, 
In  three  elements  free, 

To  run,  to  ride,  to  swim : 
Not  when  the  sense  is  dim, 

But  now  from  the  heart  of  joy, 
I  would  remember  Him: 

Take  the  thanks  of  a  boy. 

Jesu,  King  and  Lord, 

Whose  are  my  foes  to  fight, 
Gird  me  with  Thy  sword 

Swift  and  sharp  and  bright. 
Thee  would  I  serve  if  I  might; 

And  conquer  if  I  can, 
From  day-dawn  till  night, 

Take  the  strength  of  a  man. 


KIPLING  329 

Spirit  of  Love  and  Truth, 

Breathing  in  grosser  clay, 
The  light  and  flame  of  youth, 

Delight  of  men  in  the  fray, 
Wisdom  in  strength's  decay; 

From  pain,  strife,  wrong  to  be  free 
This  best  gift  I  pray, 

Take  my  spirit  to  Thee. 

Bttching. 

cxxv 
A  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

KAMAL  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border  side, 
And   he   has   lifted  the  Colonel's   mare  that  is  the 

Colonel's  pride: 
He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between 

the  dawn  and  the  day, 
And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden 

her  far  away. 
Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a  troop 

of  the  Guides: 
'  Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  where 

Kamal  hides?' 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed   Khan,   the  son  of 

the  Ressaldar, 
'If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  yc  know 

where  his  pickets  are. 
At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into 

Bonair — 
Hut  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh   to   his  own  place 

to  fare, 


330  KIPLING 

So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can  fly, 
By  the  favour  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he 

win  to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai. 
But  if   he  be   passed   the   Tongue   of   Jagai,    right 

swiftly  turn  ye  then, 
For  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain 

are  sown  with  Kamal's  men.' 
The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw 

rough  dun  was  he, 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  Hell  and 

the  head  of  the  gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they  bid  him 

stay  to  eat — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not 

long  at  his  meat. 
He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he 

can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the  gut  of 

the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with  Kamal 

upon  her  back, 
And   when  he   could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he 

made  the  pistol  crack. 

He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whist- 
ling ball  went  wide. 
'Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,'  Kamal  said.     'Show  now 

if  ye  can  ride.' 

It's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust- 
devils  go, 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare  like 

a  barren  doe. 


KIPLING  331 

The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his 

head  above, 
But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars  as  a 

lady  plays  with  a  glove. 
They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their 

hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn, 
.The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare 

like  a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woful  heap 

fell  he,— 
And  Kamal   has  turned   the  red  mare  back,   and 

pulled  the  rider  free. 
He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small 

room  was  there  to  strive — 
'  'Twas  only  by  favour  of  mine,'  quoth  he,  'ye  rode 

so  long  alive; 
There   was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was 

not  a  clump  of  tree, 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his  rifle 

cocked  on  his  knee. 

If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have  held  it  low, 
The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast  were  feasting  all 

in  a  row; 
If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have 

held  it  high, 
The  kite  that  whistles  above   us   now  were  gorged 

till  she  could  not  fly.' 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son : — '  Do  good  to 

bird  and  beast, 
But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats   before 

thou  makest  a  feast. 


332  KIPLING 

If   there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry 

my  bones  away, 
Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than 

a  thief  could  pay. 
They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing   crop, 

their  men  on  the  garnered  grain, 
The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when« 

all  the  cattle  are  slain. 
But   if    thou   thinkest   the   price   be   fair,   and   thy 

brethren  wait  to  sup, 
The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn, — howl,  dog, 

and  call  them  up ! 
And  if   thou  thinkest  the  price   be   high,  in   steer 

and  gear  and  stack, 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my 

own  way  back !  ' 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him  upon 

his  feet. 
'No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,'  said  he,  'when  wolf  and 

grey  wolf  meet. 

May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or  breath. 
What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to  jest  at  the 

dawn  with  Death  ? ' 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son  : — '  I  hold  by  the 

blood  of  my  clan ; 
Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — By  God  she 

has  carried  a  man  ! ' 
The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  nuzzled 

her  nose  in  his  breast, 
'We  be  two  strong  men,'  said  Kamal  then,  'but  she 

loveth  the  younger  best. 


KIPLING  333 

So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise 

studded  rein, 
My  broidered   saddle   and    saddle-cloth,   and    silver 

stirrups  twain.' 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it  muzzle- 
end, 
.'Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,'  said  he;  'will 

ye  take  the  mate  from  a  friend  ? ' 
'A  gift  for  a  gift,'  said  Kamal  straight;  'a  limb  for 

the  risk  of  a  limb. 
Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me,  I'll  send  my  son 

to  him! ' 
With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  who   dropped 

from  a  mountain-crest — 
He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring  and  he  looked 

like  a  lance  in  rest. 
'  Now  here  is  thy  master,'  Kamal  said,  '  who  leads  a 

troop  of  the  Guides, 
And   thou   must   ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield  to 

shoulder  rides. 
Till    Death   or   I  cut   loose  the  tie,   at   camp   and 

board  and  bed, 
Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy 

head. 
And  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and 

all  her  foes  are  thine, 
And    thou    must   harry    thy    father's    hold    for    the 

peace  of  the  Horde r  line, 
And    thou    must    make   a   trooper   tough   and    hack 

thy  way  to  jxjwer — 
Belike  they  will  raise  thce  to  Rcssaldar  when  I  am 

hanged  in  1'eshawur.' 


334:  KIPLING 

They   have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes, 

and  there  they  found  no  fault, 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood 

on  leavened  bread  and  salt; 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood 

on  fire  and  fresh-cut  sod, 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and 

the  Wondrous  Names  of  God. 
The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare  and  Kamal's  boy 

the  dun, 
And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh  where  there 

went  forth  but  one. 
And  when  they   drew  to   the    Quarter- Guard,    full 

twenty  swords  flew  clear — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the 

blood  of  the  mountaineer. 
Ha'  done!  ha'  done! '  said  the  Colonel's  son.    '  Put 

up  the  steel  at  your  sides ! 

Last  night  ye   had   struck   at  a   Border   thief — to- 
night 'tis  a  man  of  the  Guides! ' 

Oh,  east  is  east,  and  west  is  west,  and  never  the 

two  shall  meet 
Till  earth  and  sky  stand  presently  at  God's   great 

Judgment  Seat. 
But  there  is  neither  east  nor  west,  border  or  breed 

or  birth, 
When  two  strong  men   stand  face  to  face,   though 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 


KIPLING  335 

CXXVI 

THE   FLAG  OF  ENGLAND 

WINDS  of  the  World,  give  answer !  They  are  whim- 
pering to  and  fro — 

And  what  should  they  know  of  England  who  only 
England  know? — 

The  poor  little  street-bred  people  that  vapour  and 
fume  and  brag, 

They  are  lifting  their  heads  in  the  stillness  to 
yelp  at  the  English  Flag. 

Must  we  borrow  a  clout  from  the  Boer — to  plaster 

anew  with  dirt? 
An  Irish  liar's  bandage,  or  an  English  coward's 

shirt? 
We  may  not  speak  of  England;  her  Flag's  to  sell 

or  share. 
What   is   the    Flag   of    England?     Winds   of   the 

World,  declare! 

The  North  Wind  blew: — 'From  Bergen  my  steel- 
shod  vanguards  go ; 

I  chase  your  lazy  whalers  home  from  the  Disko  floe; 

By  the  great  North  Lights  above  me  I  work  the 
will  of  (»od, 

And  the  liner  splits  on  the  ice-fields  or  the  Dogger 
fills  with  cod. 

I  barred  my  gates  with  iron,  I  shuttered  my  doors 

with  flame, 
Because    to    force    my    ramparts    your    nutshell 

navies  came; 


336  KIPLING 

I  took  the  sun  from  their  presence,  I  cut  them 

down  with  my  blast, 
And  they  died,  but  the  Flag  of  England  blew  free 

ere  the  spirit  passed. 

The  lean  white  bear  hath  seen  it  in  the  long,  long 

Arctic  night, 
The  musk-ox  knows  the   standard  that  flouts  the 

Northern  Light: 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?     Ye  have  but  my 

bergs  to  dare, 
Ye  have  but  my  drifts  to  conquer.     Go  forth,  for 

it  is  there ! ' 

The  South  Wind   sighed: — 'From   the   Virgins   my 

mid-sea  course  was  ta'en 
Over  a  thousand  islands  lost  in  an  idle  main, 
Where   the   sea-egg   flames  on  the  coral  and  the 

long-backed  breakers  croon 
Their  endless  ocean  legends  to  the  lazy,  locked 

lagoon. 

Strayed  amid  lonely  islets,  mazed  amid  outer  keys, 
I  waked  the  palms  to  laughter — I  tossed  the  scud 

in  the  breeze — 

Never  was  isle  so  little,  never  was  sea  so  lone, 
But  over  the  scud  and  the  palm-trees  an  English 

flag  was  flown. 

I  have  wrenched  it  free  from  the  halliard  to  hang 

for  a  wisp  on  the  Horn; 
I  have  chased  it  north  to  the  Lizard — ribboned 

and  rolled  and  torn; 


KIPLING  337 

I  have  spread  its  fold  o'er  the  dying,  adrift  in  a 

hopeless  sea ; 
I  have  hurled  it  swift  on  the  slaver,  and  seen  the 

slave  set  free. 

My  basking  sunfish  know  it,  and  wheeling  albatross, 
Where   the  lone  wave  fills  with  fire  beneath   the 

Southern  Cross. 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?    Ye  have  but  my 

reefs  to  dare, 
Ye  have  but  my  seas  to  furrow.     Go  forth,  for  it 

is  there ! ' 

The  East  Wind    roared: — 'From   the    Kurilcs,    the 

Bitter  Seas,  I  come, 
And  me  men  call  the   Home-Wind,   fof  I  bring 

.    the  English  home. 
Look — look  well  to  your  shipping!     Uy  the  breath 

of  my  mad  typhoon 

I  swept  your  close-packed  Praya  and  beached 
your  best  at  Kowloon ! 

The  reeling  junks  behind  me  and  the  racing  seas 
before, 

I  raped  your  richest  roadstead — I  plundered  Sing- 
apore ! 

I  set  my  hand  on  the  Hoogli ;  as  a  hooded  snake 
she  rose, 

And  I  heaved  your  stoutest  steamers  to  roost  with 
the  startled  crows. 

Never  the  lotos  closes,  never  the  wild-fowl  wake. 

Hut  a  soul  goes  out  on  the  ICast  Wind  that  died 
for  England's  sake— 


338  KIPLING 

Man  or  woman  or  suckling,  mother  or  bride  or 

maid — 
Because  on  the  bones  of  the  English  the  English 

Flag  is  stayed. 

The  desert-dust  hath  dimmed  it,  the  flying  wild- 
ass  knows, 

The  scared  white  leopard  winds  it  across  the  taint- 
less snows. 

What  is  the  Flag  of  England?  Ye  have  but  my 
sun  to  dare, 

Ye  have  but  my  sands  to  travel.  Go  forth,  for  it 
is  there ! ' 

The  West  Wind  called: — 'In  squadrons  the  thought- 
less galleons  fly 

That  bear  the  wheat  and  cattle  lest  street-bred 
people  die. 

They  make  my  might  their  porter,  they  make  my 
house  their  path, 

And  I  loose  my  neck  from  their  service  and  whelm 
them  all  in  my  wrath. 

I  draw  the  gliding  fog-bank  as  a  snake  is  drawn 
from  the  hole, 

They  bellow  one  to  the  other,  the  frighted  ship- 
bells  toll : 

For  day  is  a  drifting  terror  till  I  raise  the  shroud 
with  my  breath, 

And  they  see  strange  bows  above  them  and  the 
two  go  locked  to  death. 


KIPLING  839 

But  whether  in  calm  or  wrack-wreath,  whether  by 

dark  or  day 
I  heave   them  whole  to  the  conger  or  rip  their 

plates  away, 
First  of  the  scattered  legions,  under  a  shrieking 

sky, 
Dipping   between   the   rollers,   the   English    Flag 

goes  by. 

The  dead  dumb  fog  hath  wrapped  it — the  frozen 

dews  have  kissed — 
The  morning  stars  have  hailed  it,  a  fellow-star  in 

the  mist. 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?     Ye  have  but  my 

breath  to  dare, 
Ye  have  but  my  waves  to  conquer.     Go  forth,  for 

it  is  there  1 ' 


NOTES 


THIS  descant  upon  one  of  (he  most  glorious  feats  of  arms  that 
even  England  has  achieved  is  selected  and  pieced  together  from 
the  magnificent  verse  assigned  to  the  Chorus — 'Enter  RUMOUR 
painted  full  of  tongues  ' — to  King  Henry  /•'.,  the  noble  piece  of 
pageantry  produced  in  1598,  and  a  famous  number  from  the  Poems 
Lyrick  and  Pastorall  (fire.  1605)  of  Michael  Drayton.  '  Look," 
says  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  Vuion  on  the  Muses  of  his  Friend,  Michael 
Drayton  : — 

Look  how  we  read  the  Spartans  were  inflamed 
With  bold  Tyrtxus'  verse;  when  thou  art  named 
So  shall  our  English  youths  urge  on,  and  cry 
An  AGISCOURT!  an  AGISCOURT!  or  die. 

This,  it  is  true,  was  in  respect  of  another  Agincourt,  but  we  need 
not  hesitate  to  appropriate  it  to  our  own  :  in  respect  of  which — '  To 
the  Cambro-Britons  and  their  Harp,  His  /t,i//ad  of  Agtncourt^  is 
the  poet's  own  description — it  is  to  note  that  Drayton  had  no 
model  for  it;  that  it  remains  wellnigh  unique  in  English  letters  for 
over  two  hundred  years;  and  that,  despite  such  lapses  into  dog- 
gerel as  the  third  stanza,  and  some  curious  infelicities  ol  diction 
which  need  not  here  be  specified,  it  remains,  with  a  cort.iin  Sonnet, 
its  author's  chief  title  to  fume.  Compare  the  ballads  of  The  /{rave 
Lord  \Villoughby  and  The  Honour  of  /tristol  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  the  song  of  The  Arethusa  in  the  eighteenth,  and  in  the 
nineteenth  a  choice  of  such  Tyrlaran  music  as  The  Hatttc  of  the  Hal- 
tic,  Lord  Tennyson's  Hallad  i\f  the  I-'ieet,  and  The  AW  Thread  of 
Honour  of  the  late  Sir  Francis  Doyle. 


Originally   The   True  Character  of  a   Haf>fy  Life:   written   and 
printed  about  1614,  and  reprinted  by  Percy  (176^)  from  the  Kelt- 
<uite  \Vattoniantt  of  1651.    Says  Drummond  of  lien  Jonson,  'Sir 
vlward  (tic)  Wolton's  verses  of  a  Happy  Life  he  hath  by  heart.' 
Of  Wotton  himself  it  was  reserved  for  Cowley  to  r--ni.uk  that 

He  did  the  utmost  bound*  of  knowledge  find, 

Ann  found  them  nol  to  large  a*  »•>«  hi*  mind: 

•  ••••• 

And  when  he  »aw  that  he  through  all  had  psitcd 
He  died— lot  he  should  idle  gruw  at  l.i»t. 

Sec  Izaak  Walton,  Lives. 

34' 


342  NOTES 


From  Underwoods  (1640).  The  first,  An  Ode,  is  addressed  to  an 
innominate  not  yet,  I  believe,  identified.  The  second  is  part  of 
that  Ode  to  the  Immortal  Memory  of  that  Heroic  Pair,  Sir  Lucius 
Cary  and  Sir  Henry  Morrison,  which  is  the  first  true  Pindaric  in 
the  language.  Gifford  ascribes  it  to  1629,  when  Sir  Henry  died, 
but  it  seems  not  to  have  been  printed  before  1640.  Sir  Lucius 
Cary  is  the  Lord  Falkland  of  Clarendon  and  Horace  Walpole. 


From  The  Mad  Lover  (produced  about  1618:  published  in  1640). 
Compare  the  wooden  imitations  of  Dryden  in  Amboyna  and  else- 
where. 


First  printed,  Mr.  Bullen  tells  me,  in  1640.  Compare  X. 
(Shirley,  post,  p.  20),  and  the  cry  from  Raleigh's  History  of  the 
World:  'O  Eloquent,  Just,  and  Mighty  Death!  Whom  none 
could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded ;  what  none  hath  dared,  thou 
hast  done ;  and  whom  all  the  World  hath  flattered,  thou  only  hast 
cast  out  of  the  World  and  despised :  thou  hast  drawn  together  all 
the  far-stretched  Greatness,  all  the  Pride,  Cruelty,  and  Ambition 
of  Man,  and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words, 
"Hie  Jacet" ' 

VII,  VIII 

This  pair  of  'noble  numbers,'  of  brilliant  and  fervent  lyrics,  is 
from  Hesperides,  or.  The  Works  both  Human  and  Divine  of  Robert 
Herrick,Esq.  (1648). 


No.  61,  '  Vertue'  in  The  Temple :  Sacred  Poems  and  Private 
Ejaculations,  1632-33.  Compare  Herbert  to  Christopher  Farrer, 
as  reported  by  Izaak  Walton  : — 'Tell  him  that  I  do  not  repine, 
but  am  pleased  with  my  want  of  health ;  and  tell  him,  my  heart  is 
fixed  on  that  place  where  true  joy  is  only  to  be  found,  and  that  I 
long  to  be  there,  and  do  wait  for  my  appointed  change  with  hope 
and  patience.' 


From  The  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses,  printed  1659.     Com- 
pare VI.  (Beaumont,  ante,  p.  15),  and  Bacon,  Essays,  '  On  Death  ' : 


NOTES  343 

'  But,  above  all.  believe  it,  the  sweetest  canticle  is  Nunc  dimittis, 
when  a  man  hath  attained  worthy  ends  and  expectations.' 


Written  in  the  November  of  1637,  and  printed  next  year  in 
the  Obsequies  to  the  Memorie  of  Mr.  Edward  King.  '  In  this 
Monody,"  the  title  runs,  '  the  Author  bewails  a  Learned  Friend 
unfortunately  drowned  in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish 
Seas,  1637.  And  by  occasion  foretells  the  ruine  of  our  corrupted 
Clergie,  then  in  their  height.'  King,  who  died  at  five-  or  six-and- 
twenty,  was  a  personal  friend  of  Milton's,  but  the  true  accents 
of  grief  are  inaudible  in  Lycidas,  which  is,  indeed,  an  example 
as  perfect  as  exists  of  Milton's  capacity  for  turning  whatever  he 
touched  into  pure  poetry :  an  arrangement,  that  is,  of  '  the  best 
words  in  the  best  order ' ;  or,  to  go  still  further  than  Coleridge,  the 
best  words  in  the  prescribed  or  inevitable  sequence  that  makes  the 
arrangement  art.  For  the  innumerable  allusions  see  Professor 
Masson's  edition  of  Milton  (Macmillan,  1890),  i.  187-201,  and 
iii.  254-276. 

XII 

The  Eighth  Sonnet  (Masson) :  '  When  the  Assault  was  Intended 
to  the  City.'  Written  in  1642,  with  Rupert  and  the  King  at 
Brentford,  and  printed  in  the  edition  of  1645. 


XIII 

The  Sixteenth  Sonnet  (Masson) :  '  To  the  Lord  General 
Cromwell,  May,  1652:  On  the  Proposals  of  Certain  Ministers  at 
the  Committee  for  Propagation  of  the  Gospel.'  Printed  by  Philips, 
Life  of  Milton,  1694.  In  defence  of  the  principle  of  Religious  Vol- 
untaryism, and  against  the  intolerant  Fifteen  Proposals  of  John 
Owen  and  the  majority  of  the  Committee. 


XIV 

The  Eighteenth  Sonnet  (Masson).  'Written  in  1655,"  says 
Masson,  and  referring  '  to  the  persecution  instituted,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  year,  by  Charles  Emmanuel  II.,  Duke  of  Savoy  and 
Prince  of  Piedmont,  against  his  Protestant  subjects  of  the 
valleys  of  the  Cotiian  Alps.'  In  January,  an  edict  required 
them  to  turn  Romanists  or  quit  the  country  out  of  hand;  it  was 
enforced  with  such  barbarity  that  Cromwell  took  the  case  of 
the  sufferers  in  hand;  and  so  vigorous  was  his  aclion  that  the 
Edict  was  withdrawn  and  a  convention  was  signed  (August  1655) 
by  which  the  Vaudois  were  permitted  to  worship  as  they  would. 
Printed  in  1673. 


344  NOTES 


xv 

The  Nineteenth  Sonnet  (Masson)  'may  have  been  written  any 
time  between  1652  and  1655,'  the  first  years  of  Milton's  blindness, 
'  but  it  follows  the  Sonnet  on  the  Piedmontese  Massacre  in  Milton's 
own  volume  of  1673.' 

XVI,  XVII 

From  the  choric  parts  of  Samson  Agonistes  (i.e.  the  Agonist,  or 
Wrestler),  first  printed  in  1671. 


Of  uncertain  date;  first  printed  by  Watson  1706-11.  The  version 
given  here  is  Emerson's  (which  is  shorter  than  the  original),  with  the 
exception  of  the  last  stanza,  which  is  Napier's  (Afontrose,  i.  Appen- 
dices) .  Napier  is  at  great  pains  to  prove  that  the  ballad  is  al  legorical , 
and  that  Montrose's  '  dear  and  only  love '  was  that  unhappy  King 
whose  Epitaph,  the  famous  Great,  Good,  and  Just,  he  is  said — 
falsely — to  have  written  with  his  sword.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
verses  have  a  second  part,  which  has  dropped  into  oblivion. 
For  the  Great  Marquis,  who  reminded  De  Retz  of  the  men  in 
Plutarch's  Lives,  was  not  averse  from  the  practice  of  poetry,  and 
wrote,  besides  these  numbers,  a  prayer  (•  Let  them  bestow  on 
every  airth  a  limb'),  a  'pasquil,'  a  pleasant  string  of  conceits  in 
praise  of  woman,  a  set  of  vehement  and  fiery  memorial  stanzas  on 
the  King,  and  one  copy  of  verses  more. 


XIX,  XX 

To    Lucasta  going  to  the    Wars   and    To  Althea  from   Prison 
are  both,  I  believe,  from  Lovelace's  Lucasta  (1645). 


XXI 

First  printed  by  Captain  Thomson,  Works  (1776),  from  a  copy 
he  held,  on  what  seems  excellent  authority,  to  be  in  Marvell's  hand. 
The  true  title  is  A  Horatian  Ode  on  Cromwell's  Return  from 
Ireland  (1650).  It  is  always  ascribed  to  Marvell  (whose  verse 
was  first  collected  and  printed  by  his  widow  in  1681),  but  there 
are  faint  doubts  as  to  the  authorship. 


Poems  (1681).  This  elegant  and  romantic  lyric  appears  to  have 
been  inspired  by  a  passage  in  the  life  of  John  Oxenbridge,  of 
whom,  '  religionis  causa  oberrantem,'  it  is  enough  to  note  that, 


NOTES  345 

after  migrating  to  Bermudas,  where  he  had  a  church,  and  being 
•  ejected '  at  the  Restoration  from  an  English  cure,  he  went  to 
Surinam  (1662-67),  to  Barbadoes  (1667),  and  to  New  England 
(1669),  where  he  was  made  pastor  of 'the  First  Church  of  Boston' 
(1670),  and  where  he  died  in  1674.  These  details  are  from  Mr. 
Grosart's  Maruell  (1875),  i.  82-85,  and  "•  S~8- 


Dryden's  second  Ode  for  Saint  Cecilia's  Day,  Alexander's  Feast, 
or  the  Power  of  Sound,  as  it  is  called,  was  written  and  printed  in 
1697.  As  it  was  designed  for  music  (it  was  set  by  Jeremiah 
Clarke),  the  closing  lines  of  every  strophe  are  repeated  by  way 
of  chorus.  I  have  removed  these  repetitions  as  impertinent  to 
the  effect  of  the  poem  in  print,  and  as  interrupting  the  rushing 
vehemency  of  the  narrative.  The  incident  described  is  the  burning 
of  Persepolis. 


Written  early  in  1782,  in  memory  of  Robert  Levett :  '  an  old 
and  faithful  friend,'  says  Johnson,  and  withal  '  a  very  useful  and 
very  blameless  man.'  Excepting  for  the  perfect  odes  of  Cowper 
(pott,  pp.  85.  86),  in  these  excellent  and  affecting  verses  the 
'  classic '  note  is  audible  for  the  last  time  in  this  book  until  we  reach 
the  Iphigeneia  of  W alter  Savage  Landor,  who  was  a  lad  of  seven 
at  the  date  of  their  composition.  They  were  written  seventeen 
years  after  the  publication  of  the  Keliqucs  (1765),  and  a  full  quarter 
century  after  the  appearance  of  The  Hard  (1757) ;  but  in  style  they 
proceed  from  the  age  of  Pope.  For  the  rest,  the  Augustan  Muse 
was  an  utter  stranger  to  the  fighting  inspiration.  Her  gait  was 
pedestrian,  her  puq>ose  didactic,  her  practice  neat  and  formal :  and 
she  prosed  of  England's  greatest  captain,  the  victor  of  Blenheim,  as 
tamely  as  himself  had  been  'a  parson  in  a  tye-wig ' — himself,  and 
not  the  amiable  man  of  letters  who  acted  as  her  amanuensis  for 
the  nonce. 


XXV 

Chevy  Chase  is  here  preferred  to  Olterbourne  as  appealing  more 
directly  to  Englishmen.  The  text  is  Percy's,  and  the  movement, 
like  that  of  all  the  English  ballads,  is  jog-trot  enough.  Sidney's 
confession — that  he  never  heard  it,  even  from  a  blind  fiddler,  but  it 
stirred  him  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet— refers,  no  doubt,  to  an 
earlier  version  than  the  present,  which  appears  to  date  from  the 
first  quarter  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Compare  The  lirave  Lord 
Willoughby  and  The  Honour  of  liristol  (fast,  pp.  60,73). 


340  NOTES 


First  printed  by  Percy.  The  text  I  give  is,  with  some  few  variants, 
that  of  the  vastly  better  version  in  The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border  (1802-3).  Of  the  'history'  of  the  ballad  the  less  said  the 
better.  The  argument  is  neatly  summarised  by  Mr.  Allingham,  p. 
376  of  The  Ballad  Book  ('  Golden  Treasury,'  1879). 

skeely  =  skilful  gurly  =  rough  wap  =  warp 

white  monie  =  silver  lap  =  sprang  flattered  =  'fluttered, 

gane  =  would  suffice  bout  =  bolt  or  rather,  floated ' 

half-fou  =  the  eighth  twine  =  thread,  (Scott) 

part  of  a  peck                   i.e.  canvas  kaims  =  combs 


Printed  by  Percy,  'from  an  old  black-letter  copy;  with  some 
conjectural  emendations.'  At  the  suggestion  of  my  friend,  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Hunt,  I  have  restored  the  original  readings,  as  in 
truer  consonancy  with  the  vainglorious,  insolent,  and  swaggering 
ballad  spirit.  As  for  the  hero,  Peregrine  Bertie,  Lord  Willoughby 
of  Eresby,  described  as  '  one  of  the  Queen's  best  swordsmen"  and 
'a  great  master  of  the  art  military,'  he  succeeded  Leicester  in 
the  command  in  the  Low  Countries  in  1587,  distinguished  himself 
repeatedly  in  fight  with  the  Spaniards,  and  died  in  1601.  '  Both 
Norris  and  Turner  were  famous  among  the  military  men  of  that 
age  '  (Percy).  In  the  Roxburgh  Ballads  the  full  title  of  the  broad- 
side— which  is  '  printed  for  S.  Coles  in  Vine  St.,  near  Hatton 
Garden,' — is  as  follows : — 'A  true  relation  of  a  famous  and  bloudy 
Battell  fought  in  Flanders  by  the  noble  and  valiant  Lord  Willoughby 
with  1500  English  against  40,000  Spaniards,  -wherein  the  English 
obtained  a  notable  victory  for  the  glory  and  renown  of  our  nation. 
Tune:  Lord  Willoughby^ 


First  printed  by  Tom  D'Urfey,  Wit  and  Mirth,  etc.  (1720), 
vi.  289-91 ;  revised  by  Robert  Burns  for  The  Sects  Musical  Magazine, 
and  again  by  Allan  Cunningham  for  The  Songs  of  Scotland;  given 
with  many  differences,  '  long  current  in  Selkirkshire,'  in  the  Min- 
strelsy of  the  Scottish  Border.  The  present  version  is  a  rifaccimento 
from  Burns  and  Scott.  It  is  worth  noting  that  Graeme  (pronounced 
'Grime'),  and  Graham  are  both  ibrms  of  one  name,  which  name 
was  originally  Grimm,  and  that,  according  to  some,  the  latter 
orthography  is  the  privilege  of  the  chief  of  the  clan. 


First  printed   in  the   Minstrelsy.      This    time    the    'history'  is 
authentic  enough.    It  happened  early  in  1596,  when  Salkeld,  the 


NOTES 


317 


Deputy  Warden  of  the  Western  Marches,  seized  under  truce  the 
person  of  William  Armstrong  of  Kinmont — elsewhere  described 
as  '  Will  Kinmonde  the  common  thieffe ' — and  haled  him  to 
Carlisle  Castle,  whence  he  was  rescued — '  with  shouting  and 
crying  and  sound  of  trumpet' — by  the  Laird  of  Buccleuch, 
Keeper  of  Liddesdale,  and  a  troop  of  two  hundred  horse.  'The 
Queen  of  England,'  says  Spottiswoode,  'having  notice  sent  her 
of  what  was  done,  stormed  not  a  little ' ;  but  see  the  excellent 
summary  compiled  by  Scott  (who  confesses  to  having  touched  up 
the  ballad)  for  the  Minstrelsy. 

Haribee=  the  gallows  hill  at  Carlisle 

reiver  =  a  border  thief,  one  of  a  class  which  lived  sparely,  fought 
stoutly,  entertained  the  strictest  sense  of  honour  and  justice, 
went  ever  on  horseback,  and  carried  the  art  of  cattle-lifting 
to  the  highest  possible  point  of  perfection  {National  Observer, 
3oA4  May,  1891) 

yett  =  gate  marshal  men  =  officers     stear  =  stir 

Jawing  =  reckoning        of  law  saft  =  light 

basnet  =  helmet          rank  reiver  =  common     fleyed  =  frightened 
curch  =  coif  or  cap        thief  bairns  =  children 

lightly  =  to  scorn         herry  =  harry  spier  =  ask 

in  a  lowe  =  on  fire     corbie  =  crow  hente  =  lifted,  haled 

slocken  =  to  slake       lear  =  learning  maill  =  rent 

splent  =  shoulder-       row-footed  =  rough-         furs  =  furrows 

piece  shod  trew  =  trust 

spauld  •=  shoulder       spait  —flood  Christentie  =  Chris- 

broken  men  =  out-     garred  =  made  tendom 

laws  slogan  =  battle-cry 


xxx 

Communicated  by  Mr.  Hunt, — who  dates  it  about  1626 — from 
Seyer's  Memoirs,  Historical  and  Topographical,  of  Bristol  and  its 
Neighbourhood  (1821-23).  The  full  title  is  The  Honour  of  Bristol; 
shewing  how  the  Angel  Gabriel  of  Bristol  fought  with  three  ships, 
who  boarded  as  many  times,  wherein  we  cleared  our  decks  and 
killed  five  hundred  of  their  men,  and  wounded  many  more,  and 
made  them  Jly  into  Cales,  when  we  lost  but  three  men,  to  the  Honour 
of  the  Angel  Gabriel  of  Bristol.  To  the  tune  Our  Noble  King  in 
his  Progress.  Cales  (13),  pronounced  as  a  dissyllable,  is  of  course 
Cadiz.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  this  spirited  and  amusing  piece  of 
doggerel  has  been  severely  edited. 


From  the  Minstrelsy,  where  it  is  'given,  without  alteration 
or  improvement,  from  the  most  accurate  copy  that  could  be 
recovered.'  Th<-  story  runs  that  Helen  Irving  (or  Helen  Bell),  of 


348  NOTES 

Kirkconnell  in  Dumfriesshire,  was  beloved  by  Adam  Fleming,  and 
(as  some  say)  Bell  of  Blacket  House ;  that  she  favoured  the  first, 
but  her  people  encouraged  the  second ;  that  she  was  thus  con- 
strained to  tryst  with  Fleming  by  night  in  the  churchyard,  '  a 
romantic  spot,  almost  surrounded  by  the  river  Kirtle ' ;  that  they 
were  here  surprised  by  the  rejected  suitor,  who  fired  at  his  rival 
from  the  far  bank  of  the  stream  ;  that  Helen,  seeking  to  shield  her 
lover,  was  shot  in  his  stead;  and  that  Fleming,  either  there  and 
then,  or  afterwards  in  Spain,  avenged  her  death  on  the  body  of 
her  slayer.  Wordsworth  has  told  the  story  in  a  copy  of  verses 
which  shows,  like  so  much  more  of  his  work,  how  dreary  a 
poetaster  he  could  be. 


This  epic-in-little,  as  tremendous  an  invention  as  exists  in  verse, 
is  from  the  Minstrelsy :  '  as  written  down  from  tradition  by  a  lady ' 
(C.  Kirkpatrick  Sharpe). 

corbies  =  crows  fail-dyke  =  wall  of          hause-bane  =  breast- 

theek  =  thatch  turf  bone 


Begun  in  1755,  and  finished  and  printed  (with  The  Progress  of 
Poetry)  in  1757.  '  Founded,'  says  the  poet,  '  on  a  tradition  cur- 
rent in  Wales,  that  Edward  the  First,  when  he  concluded  the 
conquest  of  that  country,  ordered  all  the  bards  that  fell  into  his 
hands  to  be  put  to  death.'  The  '  agonising  king '  (line  56)  is 
Edward  II.;  the  'she-wolf  of  France'  (57),  Isabel  his  queen;  the 
'scourge  of  heaven '  (60),  Edward  III.;  the  'sable  warrior'  (67), 
Edward  the  Black  Prince.  Lines  75-82  commemorate  the  rise  and 
fall  of  Richard  II. ;  lines  83-90,  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  the  murders 
in  the  Tower,  the  '  faith '  of  Margaret  of  Anjou,  the  '  fame  '  of 
Henry  V.,  the  'holy  head'  of  Henry  VI.  The  'bristled  boar'  (93) 
is  symbolical  of  Richard  III.;  '  half  of  thy  heart'  (99)  of  Eleanor 
of  Castile,  '  who  died  a  few  years  after  the  conquest  of  Wales." 
Line  no  celebrates  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Tudor  in  fulfil- 
ment of  the  prophecies  of  Merlin  and  Taliessin;  lines  115-20, 
Queen  Elizabeth  ;  lines  128-30,  Shakespeare ;  lines  131-32,  Milton  ; 
and  the  '  distant  warblings '  of  line  133,  '  the  succession  of  poets 
after  Milton's  time'  (Gray). 


XXXIV,  XXXV 

Written,  the  one  in  September  1782  (in  the  August  of  which  year 
the  Royal  George  (108  guns)  was  overset  in  Portsmouth  Harbour 
with  the  loss  of  close  on  a  thousand  souls),  and  the  other 'after 
reading  Hume's  History  in  1780'  (Benham). 


NOTES  349 

XXXVI 

It  is  worth  recalling  that  at  one  time  Walter  Scott  attributed 
this  gallant  lyric,  which  he  printed  in  the  Minstrelsy,  to  a  'greater 
Graham ' — the  Marquis  of  Montrose. 

XXXVII,  XXXVIII 

Of  these,  the  first,  Blow  High,  Blow  Low,  was  sung  in  The 
Seraglio  (1776),  a  forgotten  opera;  the  second,  said  to  have  been 
inspired  by  the  death  of  the  author's  brother,  a  naval  officer,  in 
The  Oddities  (1778) — a  'table-entertainment,'  where  Dibdin  was 
author,  actor,  singer,  musician,  accompanist,  everything  but 
audience  and  candle-snuffer.  They  are  among  the  first  in  time  of 
his  sea-ditties. 

XXXIX 

It  is  told  (Life,  W.  H.  Curran,  1819)  that  Curran  met  a  deserter, 
drank  a  bottle,  and  talked  of  his  chances,  with  him,  and  put  his 
ideas  and  sentiments  into  this  song. 

XL 

The  Arethusa,  Mr.  Hannay  tells  me,  being  attached  to  Keppel's 
fleet  at  the  mouth  of  the  Channel,  was  sent  to  order  the  lielle 
Poule,  which  was  cruising  with  some  smaller  craft  in  search  of 
Keppel's  ships,  to  come  under  his  stern.  The  Belle  Poule  (com- 
manded by  M.  Chadeau  de  la  Clocheterie)  refusing,  the  Arethusa 
(Captain  Marshall)  opened  fire.  The  ships  were  tairly  matched, 
and  in  the  action  which  ensued  the  Arethusa.  appears  to  have  got 
the  worst  of  it.  In  the  end,  after  about  an  hour's  fighting, 
Keppel's  liners  came  up,  and  the  Belle  Poule  made  off.  She 
was  afterwards  driven  ashore  by  a  superior  English  force,  and 
it  is  an  odd  coincidence  that  in  1789  the  Arethusa  ran  ashore  off 
Brest  during  her  action  (loth  March)  with  I' Aigrette.  As  for  the 
French  captain,  he  lived  to  command  f ' llercule,  De  Grassc's  lead- 
ing ship  in  the  great  sea-fight  (I2th  April  1782)  with  Rodney  off 
Dominica,  where  he  was  killed. 

XI.I 
From  the  Songs  of  Experience  (1794). 

XL!  I 

Sifts  Musical  Museum,  1788.  Adapted  from,  or  rather  suggested 
by,  the  Farewell,  which  Macphcrson,  a  catcnin  'of  great  personal 
strength  and  musical  accomplishment,'  is  said  to  have  played  and 
sung  at  the  gallows  foot ;  thereafter  breaking  his  violin  across  his 
knee  and  submitting  his  neck  to  the  hangman. 

spring's  melody  in  quick  time  sturt  -  molestation 


350  NOTES 

XLIII 

Museum,  1796.  Burns  told  Thomson  and  Mrs.  Dunlop  that  this 
noble  and  most  moving  song  was  old;  but  nobody  believed  him 
then,  and  nobody  believes  him  now. 

pint-stoup  =pint-  paidl't  =  paddled  guid-willie  =  u'ell-meant, 

mug  burn  =  brook  full  of  food-will 

braes  =  hill-sides  fiere  =  friend,  com-  waught  =  draught 
go  wans  =  daisies          panion 


The  first  four  lines  are  old.  The  rest  were  written  apparently  in 
1788,  when  the  poet  sent  this  song  and  Auld  Lang  Syne  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop.  It  appeared  in  the  Museum,  1790. 

tassie  =  a  cup  ;  Fr. '  tasse ' 

XLV 

About  1777-80:  printed  1801.  'One  of  my  juvenile  works,"  says 
Burns.  '  I  do  not  think  it  very  remarkable,  either  for  its  merits 
or  demerits.'  But  Hazlitt  thought  the  world  of  it,  and  now  it 
passes  for  one  of  Burns's  masterpieces. 

trysted  =  appointed  stoure  =  dust  and  din 

XLVI 

Museum,  1796.  Attributed,  in  one  shape  or  another,  to  a  certain 
Captain  Ogilvie.  Sharpe,  too,  printed  a  broadside  in  which  the 
third  stanza  (used  more  than  once  by  Sir  Walter)  is  found  as  here. 
But  Scott  Douglas  (Burns,  iii.  173)  has  '  no  doubt  that  this  broad- 
side was  printed  after  1796,'  and  as  it  stands  the  thing  is  assuredly 
the  work  of  Burns.  The  refrain  and  the  metrical  structure  have 
been  used  by  Scott  (Rokeby,  IV.  28).,  Carlyle,  Charles  Kingsley 
( Do Icino  to  Margaret) ,  and  Mr.  Swinburne  (A  Reiver's  Neck  Verse}, 
among  others. 

XLVII — Lll 

Of  the  first  four  numbers,  the  high-water  mark  of  Wordsworth's 
achievement,  all  four  were  written  in  1802 ;  the  second  and  third 
were  published  in  1803 ;  the  first  and  'fourth  in  1807.  The  Ode  to 
Duty  was  written  in  1805,  and  published  in  1807,  to  which  year 
belongs  that  Song  for  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  from  which 
I  have  extracted  the  excellent  verses  here  called  Two  Victories. 

-    LIII— LXII 

The  first  three  numbers  are  from  Marmion  (1808):  I.  Introduc- 
tion; v.  12;  and  vi.  18-20,  25-27,  and  33-34.  The  next  is 
from  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  (1810),  I.  1-9;  The  Outlaw  is  from 


NOTES  351 

Rokeby  (1813),  III.  16;  the  Pibroch  was  published  in  1816;  Tht 
Omnipotent  and  The  Red  Harlaw  are  from  The  Antiquary  (1816), 
and  the  Farewell  from  The  Pirate  (1821).  As  for  Bonny  Dundee, 
that  incomparable  ditty,  it  was  written  as  late  as  1825.  '  The  air 
of  Bonny  Dundee  running  in  my  head  to-day,'  he  writes  under  date 
of  22d  December  (Diary,  1890,  i.  61),  'I  wrote  a  few  verses  to  it 
be/ore  dinner,  taking  the  key-note  from  the  story  of  Clavers  leaving 
the  Scottish  Convention  of  Estates  in  1688-9.  /  wonder  if  they  are 
good.'  See  The  Doom  ofDevorgoil  (1830),  Note  A,  Act  n.  sc.  2. 


This  unsurpassed  piece  of  art,  in  which  a  music  the  most  exquis- 
ite is  used  to  body  forth  a  set  of  suggestions  that  seem  dictated  by 
the  very  Spirit  of  Romance,  was  produced,  under  the  influence  of 
'  an  anodyne,'  as  early  as  1797.  Coleridge,  who  calls  it  Kubla 
Khan:  A  Vision  within  a  Dream,  avers  that,  having  fallen  asleep 
in  his  chair  over  a  sentence  from  Purchas's  Pilgrimage — 'Here 
the  Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built  and  a  stately 
garden  thereto ;  and  thus  ten  miles  of  ground  were  enclosed  with 
a  wall,' — he  remained  unconscious  for  about  three  hours,  '  during 
which  time  he  had  the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could  not  have 
composed  less  than  three  hundred  lines';  'if  that,'  he  adds,  'can 
be  called  composition,  in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before 
him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  production  of  the  correspondent  ex- 
pressions, without  any  sensation  or  consciousness  of  effort.'  On 
awakening,  he  proceeded  to  write  out  his  '  composition,'  and  had 
set  down  as  much  of  it  as  is  printed  here,  when  '  he  was  unfortu- 
nately called  out  by  a  person  on  business  from  Porlock,'  whose 
departure,  an  hour  after,  left  him  wellnigh  oblivious  of  the  rest. 
This  confession,  which  is  dated  1816,  has  been  generally  accepted 
as  true ;  but  Coleridge  had  a  trick  of  dreaming  dreams  about  him- 
self which  makes  doubt  permissible. 


LXIV 

From  the  Hellenics  (written  in  I>atin.  1814-20,  and  translated  into 
English  at  the  instance  of  Lady  Blcssington),  1846.  See  Colvin, 
LanJor  ('  English  Men  of  Letters'),  pp.  189,  190. 


Of  the  first, '  Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor '  (  The  Pilgrim  of 
Glencoe,  1842),  Campbell  writes  that  the  'anecdote  has  been  pub- 
lished in  several  public  journals,  both  French  and  English.'  '  My 
belief,'  he  continues, '  in  its  authenticity  was  confirmed  by  an  Eng- 
lishman, long  resident  in  Boulogne,  lately  telling  me  that  he  remem- 
bered the  circumstance  to  have  been  generally  talked  of  in  the 


352  NOTES 

place.'  Authentic  or  not,  I  have  preferred  the  story  to  Hokenlinden, 
as  less  hackneyed,  for  one  thing,  and,  for  another,  less  pretentious 
and  rhetorical.  The  second  ( Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  1809)  is  truly 
one  of  '  the  glories  of  our  birth  and  state.'  The  third  (idem  )  I 
have  ventured  to  shorten  by  three  stanzas :  a  proceeding  which, 
however  culpable  it  seem,  at  least  gets  rid  of  the  chief  who  gave 
a  country's  wounds  relief  by  stopping  a  battle,  eliminates  the  mer- 
maid and  her  song  (the  song  that  '  condoles '),  and  ends  the  lyric 
on  as  sonorous  and  romantic  a  word  as  even  Shakespeare  ever 
used. 


Corn  Law  Rhymes,  1831. 


From  that  famous  and  successful  forgery,  Cromek's  Remains  of 
Nithsdale  and  Gallmaay  Swig  (1810),  written  when  Allan  was  a 
working  mason  in  Dumfriesshire.  I  have  omitted  a  stanza  as 
inferior  to  the  rest. 

LXXI 

English  Songs  and  other  Small  Poems,  1834. 

LXXII — LXXVIII 

The  first  is  from  the  Hebrew  Melodies  (1815)  ;  the  next  is  selected 
from  The  Siege  of  Corinth  (1816),  22-33;  Alhama  (idem)  is  a  spir- 
ited yet  faithful  rendering  of  the  Romance  muy  Doloroso  del  Sitio  y 
Toma  de  Alhama,  which  existed  both  in  Spanish  and  in  Arabic,  and 
whose  effect  was  such  that  '  it  was  forbidden  to  be  sung  by  the 
Moors  on  the  pain  of  death  in  Granada '  (Byron)  ;  No.  LXXV., 
surely  one  of  the  bravest  songs  in  the  language,  was  addressed 
(idem)  to  Thomas  Moore;  the  tremendous  Race  with  Death  is 
lifted  out  of  the  Ode  in  Venice  (1819)  ;  for  the  next  number  see 
Don  yuan,  III.  (1821)  ;  the  last  of  all,  '  Stanzas  inscribed  On  this 
day  I  completed  my  Thirty-sixth  year'  (1824),  is  the  last  verse  that 
Byron  wrote. 


Napier  has  described  the  terrific  effect  of  Napoleon's  pursuit ; 
but  in  the  operations  before  Corunna  he  was  distanced,  if  not  out- 
generalled,  by  Sir  John  Moore,  and  ere  the  first  days  of  1809 
he  gave  his  command  to  Soult,  who  pressed  us  vainly  through 
the  hill-country  between  Leon  and  Gallicia,  and  got  beaten  at 
Corunna  for  his  pains.  Wolfe,  who  was  an  Irish  parson  and 
died  of  consumption,  wrote  some  spirited  verses  on  the  flight 
of  Busaco,  but  this  admirable  elegy — '  I  will  show  you,'  said 


NOTES  353 

Byron  to  Shelley  (Medwin,  ii.  154)  'one  you  have  never  seen,  that 
I  consider  little  if  at  all  inferior  to  the  best,  the  present  prolific  age 
has  brought  forth ' — remains  his  passport  to  immortality.  It  was 
printed,  not  by  the  author,  in  an  Irish  newspaper;  was  copied  all 
over  Britain ;  was  claimed  by  liar  after  liar  in  succession ;  and  has 
been  reprinted  more  often,  perhaps,  than  any  poem  of  the  century. 


From  Snarleyow,  or  the  Doff  Fiend  (1837).  Compare  Nelson  to 
Collingwood :  '  Victory,  25th  June,  1805, — May  God  bless  you  and 
send  you  alongside  the  Santissima  Trinidad' 


LXXXI,   LXXXII 

The  story  of  Casabianca  is,  I  believe,  untrue ;  but  the  intention 
of  the  singer,  alike  in  this  number  and  in  the  next,  is  excellent. 
Each  indeed  is,  in  its  way,  a  classic.  The  Mayflower  sailed  from 
Southampton  in  1626. 


This  magnificent  sonnet,  On  First  Reading1  Chapman's  Homer, 
was  printed  in  1817.  The  '  Cortez'  of  the  eleventh  verse  is  a  mis- 
take; the  discoverer  of  the  Pacific  being  Nunez  de  Balboa. 


LXXXIV— LXXXVII 

The  Lays  are  dated  1824 ;  they  have  passed  through  edition  after 
edition  ;  and  if  Matthew  Arnold  disliked  and  contemned  them  (see 
Sir  F.  H.  Doyle,  Reminiscences  and  Opinions,  pp.  178—87),  the  gen- 
eral is  wise  enough  to  know  them  by  heart.  But  a  book  that  is  '  a 
catechism  to  fight '  (in  Jonson's  phrase)  would  have  sinned  against 
itself  had  it  taken  no  account  of  them,  and  I  have  given  Horatius  in 
its  integrity :  if  only,  as  Landor  puts  it, 

To  show  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lac  behind,  what  Romnns  were, 
When  all  the  Tuscans  ami  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 

As  for  The  slrmada.  I  have  preferred  it  to  The  Hallle  of  Naseby, 
first,  because  it  is  neither  vicious  nor  ugly,  and  the  other  is  both ; 
and,  second,  l>ccause  it  is  so  brilliant  an  outcome  of  that  capacity 
for  dealing  with  proper  names  which  Macaulay,  whether  poet  or 
not,  possesses  in  common  with  none  but  certain  among  the  greater 
poets.  For  The  Last  liuccaneer  (a  curious  anticipation  of  some 
effects  of  Mr.  Kudyard  Kipling),  and  that  noble  thing,  the  Jacobite's 
Epitaph,  they  arc  dated  1839  and  1845  respectively. 


354  NOTES 


The  Poetical  Works  of  Robert  Stephen  Hawker  (Kegan  Paul, 
1879).  By  permission  of  Mrs.  R.  S.  Hawker.  '  With  the  exception 
of  the  choral  lines — 

And  shall  Trelawney  die? 
There's  twenty  thousand  Cornishmen 
Will  know  the  reason  why ! — 

and  which  have  been,  ever  since  the  imprisonment  by  James  II.  of 
the  Seven  Bishops — one  of  them  Sir  Jonathan  Trelawney — a 
popular  proverb  throughout  Cornwall,  the  whole  of  this  song  was 
composed  by  me  in  the  year  1825.  I  wrote  it  under  a  stag-horned 
oak  in  Sir  Beville's  Walk  in  Stowe  Wood.  It  was  sent  by  me 
anonymously  to  a  Plymouth  paper,  and  there  it  attracted  the  notice 
of  Mr.  Davies  Gilbert,  who  reprinted  it  at  his  private  press  at  East- 
bourne under  the  avowed  impression  that  it  was  the  original  ballad. 
It  had  the  good  fortune  to  win  the  eulogy  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who 
also  deemed  it  to  be  the  ancient  song.  It  was  praised  under  the 
same  persuasion  by  Lord  Macaulay  and  Mr.  Dickens.' — Author's 
Note. 

LXXXIX— XCII 

From  The  Sea  Side  and  the  Fire  Side,  1851 ;  Birds  of  Passage, 
Flight  the  First,  and  Flight  the  Second;  and  Flower  de  Luce,  1866. 
Of  these  four  examples  of  the  picturesque  and  taking  art  of  Long- 
fellow, I  need  say  no  more  than  that  all  are  printed  in  their  integrity, 
with  the  exception  of  the  first.  This  I  leave  the  lighter  by  a  moral 
and  an  application,  both  of  which,  superfluous  or  not,  are  remote 
irom  the  general  purpose  of  this  book  :  a  confession  in  which  I  may 
include  the  following  number,  Mr.  Whittier's  Barbara  Frietchie  (In 
War- Time,  1863). 


Nineteenth  Century,  March  1878 ;  Ballads  and  other  Poems,  1880. 
By  permission  of  Messrs.  Macmillan,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
some  of  my  choicest  numbers.  For  the  story  of  Sir  Richard  Gren- 
ville's  heroic  death, 'in  the  last  of  August,'  1591 — after  the  Revenge 
had  endured  the  onset  of  '  fifteen  several  armadas,"  and  received 
some 'eight  hundred  shot  of  great  artillerie,' — see  Hakluyt  (1598- 
1600),  ii.  169-176,  where  you  will  find  it  told  with  singular  animation 
and  directness  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  held  a  brief  against  the 
Spaniards  in  Sir  Richard's  case  as  always.  To  Sir  Richard's  pro- 
posal to  blow  up  the  ship  the  master  gunner  '  readily  condescended,' 
as  did  '  divers  others ' ;  but  the  captain  was  of  '  another  opinion," 
and  in  the  end  Sir  Richard  was  taken  aboard  the  ship  of  the  Span- 
ish admiral,  Don  Alfonso  de  Bazan,  who  used  him  well  and  hon- 
ourably until  he  died :  leaving  to  his  friends  the  '  comfort  that  being 
dead  he  hath  not  outlived  his  own  honour,"  and  that  he  had  nobly 


NOTES  355 

shown  how  false  and  vain,  and  therefore  how  contrary  to  God's 
will,  the  '  ambitious  and  bloudie  practices  of  the  Spaniards  '  were. 


Tiresias  and  Other  Poems,  1885.  By  permission  of  Messrs. 
Macmillan.  Included  at  Lord  Tennyson's  own  suggestion.  For 
the  noble  feat  of  arms  (a^th  October  1854)  thus  nobly  com- 
memorated, see  Kinglake  (v.  i.  102-66).  '  The  three  hundred 
of  the  Heavy  Brigade  who  made  this  famous  charge  were  the 
Scots  Greys  and  the  second  squadron  of  Enniskillings,  the  re- 
mainder of  the  "  Heavy  Brigade "  subsequently  dashing  up  to 
their  support.  The  "  three  "  were  Scarlett's  aide-de-camp,  Elliot, 
and  the  trumpeter,  and  Shegog  the  orderly,  who  had  been  close 
behind  him.' — Author's  Note. 


XCVI,  XCVII 

The  Return  of  the  Guards,  and  other  Poems,  1866.  By  permis- 
sion of  Messrs.  Macmillan.  As  to  the  first,  which  deals  with  an 
incident  of  the  war  with  China,  and  is  presumably  referred  to  in  1860, 
'  Some  Seiks  and  a  private  of  the  Buffs  (or  East  Kent  Regiment) 
having  remained  behind  with  the  grog-carts,  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  Chinese.  On  the  next  morning  they  were  brought  before 
the  authorities  and  commanded  to  perform  the  Ko  tou.  The  Seiks 
obeyed ;  but  Moyse,  the  English  soldier,  declaring  that  he  would 
not  prostrate  himself  before  any  Chinaman  alive,  was  immediately 
knocked  upon  the  head  and  his  body  thrown  upon  a  dunghill.' — 
Quoted  by  the  author  from  The  Times.  The  Elgin  of  line  6  is 
Henry  Bruce,  eighth  Lord  Elgin  (1811-1863),  then  Ambassador  to 
China,  and  afterwards  Governor-General  of  India.  Compare  The- 
ology in  Extremis  (post,  p.  309).  Of  the  second,  which  Mr.  Saints- 
bury  describes  '  as  one  of  the  most  lofty,  insolent,  and  passionate 
things  concerning  this  matter  that  our  time  has  produced,'  Sir 
Francis  notes  that  the  incident — no  doubt  a  part  of  the  conquest 
of  Sindh — was  told  him  by  Sir  Charles  Napier,  and  that '  Truckee  ' 
(line  12)=  'a  stronghold  in  the  Desert,  supposed  to  be  unassailable 
and  impregnable.' 

XCVIII,  XCIX 

By  permission  of  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder,  and  Co.  Dramatic 
Lyrics,  1845;  Cornhill  Af+fasine,  June  1871,  and  Pacchiarotto, 
1876,  Works,  iv.  and  xiv.  1  can  find  nothing  about  Herve  Kiel. 


The  two  first  are  from  the  '  Song  of  Myself,'  leaves  of  Grass 
(185^);  the  others  from  Drum  Tafs  (i860".  See  Leaves  of  Gran 
(Philadelphia,  1884),  pp.  60,  63-63,  222,  and  246. 


356  NOTES 

CIV,  CV 

By  permission  of  Messrs.  Macmillan.  Dated  severally  1857  and 
1859. 

CVI 

Edinburgh  Courant,  1852.  Compare  The  Loss  ofthe'Birkenhead' 
in  The  Return  of  the  Guards,  and  other  Poems  (Macmillan,  1883), 
pp.  256-58.  Of  the  troopship  Birkenhead  I  note  that  she  sailed 
from  Queenstown  on  the  yth  January  1852,  with  close  on  seven 
hundred  souls  on  board;  that  the  most  of  these  were  soldiers — of 
the  Twelfth  Lancers,  the  Sixtieth  Rifles,  the  Second,  Sixth,  Forty- 
third,  Forty-filth,  Seventy-third,  Seventy-fourth,  and  Ninety-first 
Regiments;  that  she  struck  on  a  rock  (26th  February  1852)  off 
Simon's  Bay,  South  Africa;  that  the  boats  would  hold  no  more 
than  a  hundred  and  thirty-eight,  and  that,  the  women  and  children 
being  safe,  the  men  that  were  left — four  hundred  and  fifty-four,  all 
told — were  formed  on  deck  by  their  officers,  and  went  down  with 
the  ship,  true  to  colours  and  discipline  till  the  end. 


By  permission  of  Messrs.  Macmillan.  From  Empedocles  on  Etna 
(1853).  As  regards  the  second  number,  it  may  be  noted  that  Soh- 
rab,  being  in  quest  of  his  father  Rustum,  to  whom  he  is  unknown, 
offers  battle  as  one  of  the  host  of  the  Tartar  King  Afrasiab,  to  any 
champion  of  the  Persian  Kai  Khosroo.  The  challenge  is  accepted 
by  Rustum,  who  fights  as  a  nameless  knight  (like  Wilfrid  of  Ivan- 
hoe  at  the  Gentle  and  Joyous  Passage  of  Ashby),  and  so  becomes 
the  unwitting  slayer  of  his  son.  For  the  story  of  the  pair  the  poet 
refers  his  readers  to  Sir  John  Malcom's  History  of  Persia.  See 
Poems,  by  Matthew  Arnold  (Macmillan),  i.  268,  269. 

cx,  cxi 

lonica  (Allen,  1891).  By  permission  of  the  Author.  School 
Fencibles  (1861)  was  'printed,  not  published,  in  1877.'  The  Ballad 
for  a  Boy,  Mr.  Cory  writes, '  was  never  printed  till  this  year.' 


By  permission  of  the  Author.  This  ballad,  which  was  suggested, 
Mr.  Meredith  tells  me,  by  the  story  of  Bendigeid  Vran,  the  son  of 
Llyr,  in  the  Mabinogion  (iii.  121-9) .  's  reprinted  from  Modern  Love 
(1862),  but  it  originally  appeared  (circ.  1860)  in  Once  a  Week,  a 
forgotten  print  the  source  of  not  a  little  unforgotten  stuff — as  Evan 
Harrington  and  the  first  part  of  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 


From   the  fourth   and   last  book   of  Sigurd  the    Volsung,  1877. 
By  permission  of   the  Author.      Hogni   and   Gunnar,  being  the 


NOTES  357 

guests  of  King  Atli,  husband  to  their  sister  Gudrun,  refused  to  tell 
him  the  whereabouts  of  the  treasure  of  Fafnir,  whom  Sigurd  slew; 
and  this  is  the  manner  of  their  taking  and  the  beginning  of  King 
Atli's  vengeance. 

CXIV 

English  Illustrated  Magazine,  January  1890,  and  Lyrical  Poems 
(Macmillan,  1891).  By  permission  of  the  Author:  with  whose 
sanction  I  have  omitted  four  lines  from  the  last  stanza. 

cxv 

By  permission  of  Sir  Alfred  Lyall.  Cornhill  Magazine,  Sep- 
tember 1868,  and  Verses  Written  in  India  (Kegan  Paul,  1889). 
The  second  title  is:  A  Soliloquy  t/iat  way  have  been  delivered  in 
India,  June  1857;  and  this  is  further  explained  by  the  following 
'extract  from  an  Indian  newspaper':  —  'They  would  have  spared 
life  to  any  of  iheir  English  prisoners  who  should  consent  to  profess 
Mahomctanism  by  repeating  the  usual  short  formula;  but  only  one 
half-caste  cared  to  save  himself  that  way.'  Then  comes  the  de- 
scription, Moriturus  Loquitur,  and  next  the  poem. 

CXVI—  CXVIII 

From  Songs  before  Sunrise  (Chatto  and  Windus,  1877),  and  the 
third  series  of  Poems  and  Ballads  (Chatto  and  Windus,  1889).  By 
permission  of  the  Author. 

CXIX,  CXX 

The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of  Bret  Harte  (Chatto  and  Windus, 
1886).  By  permission  of  Author  and  Publisher.  The  Rcvcillt  was 
spoken  before  a  Union  Meeting  at  San  Francisco  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Civil  War  and  appeared  in  a  volume  of  the  Author's  poems 
in  1867.  What  the  BulUt  Sang  is  much  later  work:  dating,  thinks 
Mr.  Harte,  from  '79  or  '80. 


St.  James's  M.igatine,  October  1877,  and  At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre 
(Kegan  Paul,  1889).    By  permission  of  the  Author. 


St.  James's  Ga*ette,2Dl\\  July  1888,  and  Grass  of  Parnassus  (Ixing- 
n-.iins,  1888).  By  permission  of  Author  and  Publisher.  Written  in 
memory  of  Gordon's  betrayal  and  death,  but  while  there  were  yet 
li  >pcs  and  rumours  of  escape. 


Underwoods  (Chatto  and  Windus,  1886).    By  permission  of  the 
Publishers. 


358  NOTES 

CXXIV 

Love's  Looking- Glass   (Percival,   1891).     By  permission  of  the 
Author. 


Macmillan's  Magazine,  November  1889.  By  permission  of  the 
Author.  Kamal  Khan  is  a  Pathan ;  and  the  scene  of  this  exploit 
— which,  I  am  told,  is  perfectly  consonant  with  the  history  and  tra- 
dition of  Guides  and  Pathans  both — is  the  North  Frontier  country 
in  the  Peshawar-Kohat  region,  say,  between  Abazai  and  Bonair, 
behind  which  is  stationed  the  Punjab  Irregular  Frontier  Force — 
'  the  steel  head  of  the  lance  couched  for  the  defence  of  India.'  As 
for  the  Queen's  Own  Corps  of  Guides,  to  the  general '  God's  Own 
Guides'  (from  its  exclusiveness and  gallantry),  it  comprehends  both 
horse  and  foot,  is  recruited  from  Sikhs,  Pathans,  Rajputs,  Afghans, 
all  the  fighting  races,  is  officered  both  by  natives  and  by  English- 
men, and  in  all  respects  is  worthy  of  this  admirable  ballad. 

Ressaldar  =  the  native  leader  of  a  ressala  or  troop  of  horse 
Tongue  =  a  barren  and  naked  strath — '  what  geologists  call  a  fan ' 
Gut  of  the  Tongue  =  the  narrowest  part  of  the  strath 
dust-devils  =  dust-clouds  blown  by  a  whirlwind 


National  Observer,  4th  April  1891.  At  the  burning  of  the  Court- 
House  at  Cork,  '  Above  the  portico  a  flagstaff  bearing  the  Union 
Jack  remained  fluttering  in  the  air  for  some  time,  but  ultimately 
when  it  fell  the  crowds  rent  the  air  with  shouts,  and  seemed  to  see 
significance  in  the  incident.' — DAILY  PAPERS.  Author's  Note. 


INDEX 

PAGE 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand 207 

All  is  finished !  and  at  length 217 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius 196 

Amid  the  loud  ebriety  of  war         .....  264 

And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and  said        .        .  280 

Arm,  arm,  arm,  arm !  the  scouts  are  all  come  in     .  3 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 79 

Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet      .         .         .         .         .  316 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash     .         .        .         .  153 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay    ....  227 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay  .        .  232 
Attend,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's 

praise 200 

Attend  you,  and  give  ear  awhile 73 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones    .  28 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 148 

Beat !  beat !  drums ! — blow!  bugles!  blow!    .        .         .  257 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 1 8 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  let  tempests  tear  ....  89 

Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master       ....  208 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 183 

But  see!  look  up — on  Hodden  bent       .         .         .         .  lift 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell     .        .        .        .  ny 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms          ...  27 

Come,  all  yc  jolly  sailors  bold 92 

359 


360  INDEX 

PAGE 

Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine     ....  45 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud  .         .  28 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone 156 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew   .         .        .         .         .         .  214 

Day,  like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark         .        .        .        .  146 

Eleven  men  of  England 244 

England,  queen  of  the  waves,  whose   green  inviolate 

girdle  enrings  thee  round 317 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke-white  steede          ...  49 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 6 

Farewell!  farewell!  the  voice  you  hear  ....  133 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong           ...  95 

Get  up  !  get  up  for  shame  !     The  blooming  morn  .         .  15 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king  .....  47 

God  who  created  me 328 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine         .....  97 

Good  Lord  Scroope  to  the  hills  is  gane          ...  64 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be        .        .        .  147 

Hark  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands    ....  322 

He  has  called  him  forty  Marchmen  bold        ...  69 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling    ...  90 

He  spoke,  and  as  he  ceased  he  wept  aloud    .         .         .  272 

He  spoke,  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taunts  .         .         .  267 

He  spoke;  but  Rusturh  gazed,  and  gazed,  and  stood     .  275 

High-spirited  friend 12 

How  happy  is  he  born  or  taught 1 1 

I  am  the  mashed  fireman  with  breast-bone  broken          .  254 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 88 

If  sadly  thinking 91 

I  love  contemplating,  apart 140 


INDEX  361 

PAGE 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master 210 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 136 

Iphigeneia,  when  she  heard  her  doom  .        .         .        .  138 

I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong    .....  105 

Is  life  worth  living?     Yes,  so  long          ....  308 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 13 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood        .        .        .  101 

It  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain   ....  326 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  King 99 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 77 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border  side  .  329 

King  Philip  had  vaunted  his  claims        .         .         .         .  324 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 179 

I^ast  night,  among  his  fellow-roughs       ....  242 

Milton !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  .        .        .  102 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear 15 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold  .        .        .  179 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 164 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 31 

Next  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower  .  .  .  114 
Nobly,  nobly  Cape  St.  Vincent  to  the  north-west  died 

away 248 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note  .  .  .  172 

Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire  ...  2 

Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time  ....  4 
Now  fell  the  sword  of  Gunnar,  and  rose  up  red  in  the 

air 297 

Now  the  noon  was  long  passed  over  when  again  the 

rumour  arose 304 

Now  we  bear  the  king  .......  10 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening    ....  189 

Now  word  is  gane  to  the  bold  Keeper  •  .  .  67 


362  INDEX 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair          .... 

O  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them  that's  rich  and 

high 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

O  for  a  Muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 

Oft  in  the  pleasant  summer  years  .         . 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  fause  Sakelde 

O  how  comely  it  is,  and  how  reviving    .... 

O  joy  of  creation    ........ 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee  . 

On  the  sea  and  at  the   Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  and 

ninety-two       .         . 

Othere,  the  old  sea-captain 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes    .... 
O  Venice  !  Venice !  when  thy  marble  walls     . 
O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west  . 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruttless  King 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  .... 
Simon  Danz  has  come  home  again  .... 
Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  .... 
Still  the  song  goeth  up  from  Gunnar,  though  his  harp 

to  earth  be  laid 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright    .... 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind   ..... 
The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 
The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck       .... 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

The  captain  stood  on  the  carronade  :  '  First  Lieutenant,' 
says  he 


INDEX  363 

PAGE 

The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy 

Brigade 239 

The  fifteenth  day  of  July 60 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear    ....  34 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 20 

The  herring  loves  the  merry  moonlight  .         .         .         .  131 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  .         .         .         .  167 

The  King  sits  in  Dunfermline  town        .        .        .         .  57 

The  last  sunbeam  ........  258 

The  Moorish  King  rides  up  and  down   .         .         .         .  1 60 

The  newes  was  brought  to  Eddenborrow        ...  56 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun     .         .         .         .  151 

The  Sea !  the  Sea,  the  open  Sea 149 

The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill  .         .         .         .         .  121 

The  weary  day  rins  down  and  dies          .         .         .         .  319 

The  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were  swelling  .         .  205 

Then  speedilie  to  wark  we  gaed     .        .        .        .        .  71 

Then  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began         .         .         .  269 

Then  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  bewailed  .         .         .  277 

This,  this  is  he;  softly  a  while 30 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke  bursts       .         .         .  265 

Thus  with  imagined  wing  our  swift  scene  flics        .         .  3 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 94 

Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved           .         .         .  171 

Toll  for  the  Brave 85 

To  mute  ami  to  material  things 107 

To  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain       .         .         .  206 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Clavcr'se  who  spoke  .  134 

Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won  ....  40 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn     ....  230 

Vain  is  the  dream !     However  Hope  may  rave       .         .  325 

We  com-.'  in  arms,  we  stand  ten  score    ....  2X4 

Welcome,  wild  north-caster    ......  262 


364  INDEX 

PAGE 

When  George  the  Third  was  reigning  a  hundred  years 

ago 285 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent ....  29 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed      .         .  101 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings         ....  33 

When  the  British  warrior  queen     .         .         .         .     •    .  86 

When  the  head  of  Bran 290 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride  .....  39 

Why  sitt'st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall        .         .         .         .  130 

Winds  of  the  World,  give  answer !     They  are  whimper- 
ing to  and  fro          .         .         .         .         .         .         .  3-55 

With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  was  slaine          ...  54 

Would  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea-fight         .         .         .  255 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 143 

Ye  shall  know  that  in  Atli's  feast-hall  on  the  side  that 

joined  the  house 293 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more  .        .        .  21 


Typography  by  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.,  Boston. 
Presswork  by  Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston. 


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kind.  It  is  an  astonishing  little  volume."— A7.  Y,  Evening  Post. 

SIDNEY   LANIER. 

THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL  AND  THE  PRINCIPLE  OF 
ITS  DEVELOPMENT.  (Crown  8vo,  $2.00.) 

"The  critical  and  analytical  portions  of  his  work  are  always 
in  high  key,  suggestive,  brilliant,  rather  dogmatic  and  not  free 
from  caprice.  .  .  But  when  all  these  abatements  are  made,  the 
lectures  remain  lofty  in  tone  and  full  of  original  inspiration.1' 

— Independent. 


SELECTED   VOLUMES  OF  ESSAYS.         5 

THE  SCIENCE  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  (Crown,  8vo, 
$2.00.) 

"It  contains  much  sound  practical  advice  to  the  makers  <i 
verse.  The  work  shows  extensive  reading  and  a  refined  taste 
both  in  poetry  and  in  music." — Nation, 

BRANDER    MATTHEWS. 

FRENCH  DRAMATISTS  OF  THE  19™  CENTURY 
(New  Edition,  8vo,  $1.50.) 

CONTENTS  :  Chronology  —  The  Romantic  Movement  — 
Hugo  —  Dumas  —  Scribe — Augier — Dumas  fils — Sardou — 
Feuillet  —  Labiche  —  Meilhac  and  Halevy  —  Zola  and  the 
Tendencies  of  French  Drama — A  Ten  Years'  Retrospect  : 
1881-1891. 

"  Mr.  Matthews  writes  with  authority  of  the  French  stage. 
Probably  no  other  writer  of  English  has  a  larger  acquaintance 
with  the  subject  than  he.  His  style  is  easy  and  graceful,  and  the 
book  is  delightful  reading."— A'.  Y.  Times. 

THE  THEATRES  OF  PARIS.  (Illustrated,  i6mo, 
$1-25.) 

"  An  interesting,  gossipy,  yet  instructive  little  book." 

— Academy  (London). 

DONALD   G.  MITCHELL. 

ENGLISH  LANDS,  LETTERS  AND  KINGS.  Vol.  I., 
From  Celt  to  Tudor.  Vol.  II.,  From  Elizabeth 
to  Anne.  (Each,  I2mo,  $1.50.) 

"Cri*p,  sparkling,  delicate,  these  brief  talks  nbout  authors 
great  and  small,  about  kings  and  queens,  schoolmasters  and 
people,  whet  the  taste  for  more.  In  '  Ik  Marvel's  '  racy,  sweet, 
delightful  prose,  w  see  the  benefits  of  English  literature  assimi- 
lated."— Literary  World. 

REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR  ;  or,  A  Book  of  the 
Heart — DREAM  LIFE:  A  Fable  of  the  Seasons. 
(Cameo  Edition,  each,  with  etching,  i6mo, 
$1.25.) 

"  Beautiful  examples  of  the  art  [of  book  making].  The  vein 
of  sentiment  in  the  text  is  one  of  which  youth  never  tires." 

—  Tkt  Nat  it*, 

SEVEN  STORIES  WITH  BASEMENT  AND  ATTIC — 
WET  DAYS  AT  EDGEWOOD,  with  Old  Farmers, 
Old  Gardeners  and  Old  Pastorals— BOUND 


5          SELECTED   VOLUMES  OF  ESSAYS. 

TOGETHER,  A  Sheaf  of  Papers — OUT-OF-TOWN 
PALACES,  with  Hints  for  their  Improvement — 
MY  FARM  OF  EDGEWOOD,  A  Country  Book. 
(Each,  I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"No  American  writer  since  the  days  of  Washington  Irving 
uses  the  English  language  as  does  '  Ik  Marvel.'  His  books  are 
as  natural  as  spring  flowers,  and  as  refreshing  as  summer  rains." 

— Boston  Transcript, 

GEORGE    MOORE. 

IMPRESSIONS  AND  OPINIONS.     (12010,  $1.25.) 

CONTENTS  :  Balzac  —  Turgueneff —  "  Le  Reve  "  —  Two 
Unknown  Poets — An  Actress  of  the  i8th  Century — Mummer 
Worship — Our  Dramatists  and  their  Literature — Note  on 
"Ghosts  " — On  the  Necessity  of  a  Theatre  Libre — Meissonier 
and  the  Salon  Julian — Art  for  the  Villa — Degas,  etc.,  etc. 

"  Both  instructive  and  entertaining  .  .  .  still  more  interest- 
ing is  the  problem  of  an  English  Theatre  Libre,  of  which  Mr. 
Moore  is  an  ingenious  advocate.  The  four  concluding  essays, 
which  treat  of  art  and  artists,  are  all  excellent." 

— Saturday  Review  (London). 

F.    MAX    MULLER. 

CHIPS  FROM  A  GERMAN  WORKSHOP.  Vol.  I., 
Essays  on  the  Science  of  Religion — Vol.  II., 
Essays  on  Mythology,  Traditions  and  Customs 
—Vol.  III.,  Essays  on  Literature,  Biographies 
and  Antiquities — Vol.  IV.,  Comparative  Phi- 
lology, Mythology,  etc. — Vol.  V.,  On  Freedom, 
etc.  (5  vols.,  each,  crown  8vo,  $2.00.) 

"These  books  afford  no  end  of  interesting  extracts  ;  '  chips'  by 
the  cord,  that  are  full  both  to  the  intellect  and  the  imagination  ; 
but  we  must  refer  the  curious  reader  to  the  volumes  themselves. 
He  will  find  in  them  a  body  of  combined  entertainment  and  in- 
struction such  as  has  hardly  ever  been  brought  together  in  so 
compact  a  form." — N.  Y.  Evening  Past. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  ESSAYS.     (Crown  8vo,  $2.00.) 

CONTENTS:  Rammohun  Roy — Keshub  Chunder  Sen — 
I)ayananda  Sarasvatt — Bunyiu  Nanjio — Kenjiu  Kasawara — 
Mohl — Kingsley. 

"  Max  Muller  is  the  leading  authority  of  the  world  in  Hindoo 
literature,  and  his  volume  on  Oriental  reformers  will  be  acceptable 
to  scholars  and  literary  people  of  all  classes." — Chicago  Tribune. 


SELECTED  VOL  UMES  OF  ESSA  YS.         ^ 

AUSTIN    PHELPS,  D.D. 

MY  NOTE-BOOK  :  Fragmentary  Studies  in 
Theology  and  Subjects  Adjacent  Thereto  ( 1 2mo. 
$1.50) — MEN  AND  BOOKS;  or,  Studies  in  Homi- 
letics  (8vo,  $2.00) — MY  PORTFOLIO  ( 1 2mo,  $  i .  50) 
— MY  STUDY,  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  (i2mo,  $1.50). 

"  His  gre.it  and  varied  learning,  his  wide  outlook,  his  profound 
sympathy  with  concrete  men  and  women,  the  lucidity  and  beauty 
of  his  style,  and  the  fertility  of  his  thought,  will  secure  for  him  a 
place  among  the  great  men  of  American  Congregationalism." 

— N,  Y.  Tribune 

NOAH    PORTER,  LL.D. 

BOOKS  AND  READING.     (Crown  8vo,  $2.00). 


PHILIP  SCHAFF,  D.D. 

LITERATURE  AND  POETRY.  (With  portrait, 
8vo,  $3.00.) 

CONTENTS  :  Studies  on  the  English  Language — The  Poetry 
of  the  Bible — Dies  Irae — Stabat  Mater — Hymns  of  St.  Bernard 
— The  University,  Ancient  and  Modern — Dante  Alighieri, 
The  Divina  Commedia. 

"There  is  a  great  amount  of  erudition  in  the  collection,  but 
the  style  is  to  simple  and  direct  that  the  reader  does  not  realize 
that  he  is  following  the  travels  of  a  close  scholar  through  many 
learned  volumes  i:i  in  my  different  languages." — CJtauiatufua*. 

WILLIAM   G.  T.  SHEDD,  D.D. 

LITERARY  ESSAYS.     (8vo,  $2.50.) 

"They  bear  the  marks  of  the  author's  scholarship,  dignity  and 
polish  of  style,  and  profound  and  severe  convictions  of  truth  and 
righteousness  as  the  basis  of  culture  as  well  as  character." 

—  Chicago  fit  frier. 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON. 

MEMORIES  AND  PORTRAITS.     (i2mo,  $1.00.) 

CONTENTS  :  Some  College  Memories — A  College  Magazine 
— An  Old  Scotch  Gardener — Memoirs  of  an  Islet — Thomas 
Stevenson — Talk  and  Talkers — The  Character  of  Dogs — A 


8          SELECTED   VOLUMES  OF  ESSAYS. 

Gossip  on  a  Novel  of  Dumas — A  Gossip  on  Romance — A 
Humble  Remonstrance. 

VIRGINIBUS  PUERISQUE,  and  Other  Papers. 
(i2mo,  $1.00.) 

CONTENTS  :  Virginibus  Puerisque  —  Crabbed  Age  and 
Youth — An  Apology  for  Idlers— Ordered  South — Acs  Triplex 
— El  Dorado — The  English  Admirals — Some  Portraits  by 
Raeburn — Child's  Play — Walking  Tours — Pan's  Pipes— A 
Plea  for  Gas  Lamps. 

FAMILIAR  STUDIES  OF  MEN  AND  BOOKS.  (12010, 
$1.25.) 

CONTENTS  :  Victor  Hugo's  Romances — Some  Aspects  of 
Robert  Burns — Walt  Whitman — Henry  David  Thoreau — 
Yoshida-Thorajiro— Francois  Villon — Charles  of  Orleans- 
Samuel  Pepys — John  Knox  and  Women. 

"If  there  are  among  our  readers  any  lover  of  good  books  to 
whom  Mr.  Stevenson  is  still  a  stranger,  we  may  advise  them  to 
make  his  acquaintance  through  either  of  these  collections  of  essays. 
The  papers  are  full  of  the  rare  individual  charm  which  gives  a 
distinction  to  the  lighest  products  of  his  art  and  fancy.  He  is  a 
notable  writer  of  good  English,  who  combines  in  a  manner 
altogether  his  own  the  flexibility,  freedom,  quickness  and  sug- 
gestiveness  of  contemporary  fashions  with  a  grace,  dignity,  and 
high-breeding  that  belong  rather  to  the  past," — N,  Y,  Tribune, 

HENRY   VAN    DYKE,   D.D. 

THE  POETRY  OF  TENNYSON.  (New  Ed.,  in 
Press.} 

CONTENTS  :  Tennyson's  First  Flight — The  Palace  of  Art ; 
Milton  and  Tennyson — Two  Splendid  Failures — The  Idylls 
of  the  King — The  Historic  Trilogy — The  Bible  in  Tennyson. 

"A  delightful  book  it  is.  It  is  both  clear  and  picturesque,  and 
never  fails  to  interest.  Seldom,  it  seems  to  us,  has  Tennyson's 
work  been  more  fairly  judged  than  in  these  pages." 

— Boston  Advertiser. 

"- <t^@®®^g®^^®®  THE  FOREGOING  VOLUMES  OF 
ESSAYS  ARE  FOR  SALE  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS,  OR 
WILL  BE  SENT  POSTPAID,  ON  RECEIPT  OF  PRICE, 
BY  THE  PUBLISHERS,  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS, 
743-T45  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK,  i 


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